He was so frustrating. He rarely did what she told him, and—despite his oath—he always found a way to wiggle out of her commands. Even worse, he was condescending. It wasn’t intentional, of course, but it was there. Sometimes he acted as if she were simply a child, though he couldn’t be more than five or six years her senior. More bothersome than his insubordination and his self-importance, however, was his determination to see the world he wanted to, rather than as it really was. She had always hated people who deluded themselves—whether they did so through religion or through unrealistic expectations. Taln, however, put such mild offenders to shame.
Jasnah nodded to herself. He was a madman. It was better that he be gone, thereby leaving the army to understand their true situation. The ones who stayed once they realized that Taln wasn’t going to return would be the strong ones, the ones she wanted anyway. Yes, it was certainly better that he had left. Left her. Alone.
“Don’t worry,” Lhan said. “He’ll return.”
“Don’t be a fool, Lhan,” Jasnah snapped. “He went to die out there—to slow the Vedens down as much as possible and take as many of them with him as he could. He won’t be returning. We both know that.”
“Actually,” Lhan corrected with a pleasant voice, “I don’t know that. And, unless you’ve been hiding a talent for numerology, I doubt that you know it either. I’ve seen him do some amazing things. Perhaps he will return.”
“Unlikely,” Jasnah said.
Lhan sat back with a thoughtful expression. “You know, people say you’re paranoid,” he said. “The citizens of Ral Eram talk about you a lot. The king’s heretic, distrusting sister, the woman with a heart as chill as a highland storm.”
Jasnah adopted a cold expression, not dignifying the insult with a comment.
Lhan continued as if he hadn’t noticed her icy glare. “They’re wrong about you. I know paranoia—trust me, when such people come to the monastery, I’m the one who gets to take care of them. You, my lady, are not paranoid.”
“I’m not?” Jasnah said flatly.
“No,” Lhan said. “You’re just a pessimist. Not the overt kind—the man who complains that his lot isn’t as good as that of his neighbor, or who tells his friends their ideas are foolish. No, you’re a true pessimist. A planning, thinking pessimist. You assume things will turn out for the worst, and so you prepare for them to do so. You distrust not because you logically determine that someone will betray you, but because you know that their betrayal is the worst possible outcome of the relationship. You find fault to prove to yourself that you are right. And, most importantly, you refuse to believe—for in belief, there is always the worry that you might be wrong. That’s not a worry you can endure, for your mind is always nagging that if you might be wrong, you probably are.”
Jasnah opened her mouth, then found herself shockingly unable to respond. Something about the monk’s solemn, friendly gaze made her want to squirm uncomfortably. Was this the same insulting, mocking man that had traveled with them for so long? How had he suddenly learned to be so . . . observant?
“I realize you don’t believe in the Almighty, Jasnah,” Lhan said. “And, to be honest, there are times when I don’t know that I believe in Him either—though those times usually come when I’m scrubbing yet another floor. The faith of religion is, perhaps, something that will never suit you. You could, however, try to believe in your friends.”
Friends. Ladies of the court didn’t have friends. They had their allies, their enemies, and their husband. Jasnah looked up, containing her introspection and instead studying the smiling monk.
Lhan shrugged. “Instead of analyzing your personality, I could just make fun of you for a while—if you think it would make you feel more comfortable.”
Jasnah snorted. “Go see if you can find a way to bother Meridas,” she said, waving her hand. “The winds know, he could use a little humility.”
“I shall do my best,” Lhan said valiantly, then wandered off in the direction of the rations cart.
Jasnah sighed, pulling her cloak close and looking again to the south. At the speeds Nachin had given for the enemy army, the invaders would catch Jasnah’s group in another day, two at the most. They would soon know whether or not Taln’s delaying tactics had been effective.
chapter 65
Jek 11
Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, pulled his cloak tight as he stood atop a stone hill, watching northward. The wind was indeed strong here, in the lands of the east. He could feel it even when there was no highstorm. In Shinavar, trees and brush blocked its wrath, but in Kanar the only foliage grew low to the ground, quelled by the wind’s domineering will. Almost, he could believe the wind to be a god, as the easterners believed. It certainly did seem ‘almighty’ at times.
To the north, men were dying. Ahven’s army was still a day’s march from Crossguard, sequestered in a large rift in the ground, remarkably undiscovered. The Veden pointmen had done their work well. Elhokar and Dalenar would be fools if they didn’t suspect something, but Ahven hoped they blamed each other for their missing scouts and dead messengers.
Jek thought he could see the battlefield. It was a clear, bright day, despite the wind. There was a dark blot on the horizon. Armies? Perhaps, but it was equally likely that Jek’s eyes were simply seeing what his mind thought that they should.
The messenger came on time, his red and white pass-flag flapping very prominently from the saddle. His news would be several hours old now; he had probably left Crossguard the moment the fight between Elhokar and Dalenar had begun. Jek tracked the man’s horse, then turned and walked back toward the camp. He reached Ahven’s pavilion before the messenger, and waited quietly for the horseman to approach.
Ahven stood at a map table that had been erected in the open air before the pavilion. Several of Ilhadal’s generals stood nearby, chatting quietly with their king. Ahven was friendly but reserved, dignified without seeming removed. He was exactly the type of leader the Veden people liked—young, handsome, straight-backed, and disciplined. Whoever had trained Ahven to act this part had done a good job. The generals treated Ahven with respect, and he in turn listened carefully to their suggestions. His willingness to listen made him seem wise, yet the way he spoke when he made the final decisions left no question as to who was in charge.
And Vedens always felt more comfortable when they knew exactly who was in charge.
I wonder if Ilhadal realizes how thoroughly his army has been stolen from him, Jek thought. The Davar First Prince probably thought himself still in control. However, he would never be a force in Kanaran politics again.
The generals quieted as one of them noticed the approaching messenger. To the side, Jek noticed Balenmar, the aged Aleth councilor, step from his tent and wander toward the table. The elderly man’s eyes were curious.
The messenger dismounted, then rushed forward with the bearing of one who had important information. He stopped before Ahven’s table, dropping to one knee.
“The battle has begun, my lord,” the man informed. “It began soon after dawn, both armies engaging at once. The final counts put Dalenar Kholin with near twenty-one thousand troops, and King Elhokar with twenty-six. Elhokar has thirty-five Shardbearers, but Dalenar only twenty-six.”
The generals nodded at the information. “The king has the advantage, then,” one of them declared to general assent. Both armies were well-rested, and previous counts had placed Elhokar with more archers and better equipment than Dalenar. They also had the advantage of several towers captured from Crossguard, as well as the city walls to use as archer stations. Elhokar’s force trumped that of Dalenar in every area.
“The Tyrantbane will win the day,” Ahven said.
The talk grew quiet. “Why do you say that, your majesty?” one of the generals finally ventured.
“Because he is Dalenar Kholin,” Ahven said simply, as if his reasoning were obvious. “Elhokar has the edge in men and equipment, but that edge is slight. Dalena
r’s men will fight harder, for they best believe in the nobility of their lord. On the morrow, when our own forces attack, we will face Dalenar Kholin, and not his foolish nephew.”
The generals glanced at each other, but they obviously had too much respect to contradict their liege. “Either way,” one offered, “it will be a broken army we face. Dalenar’s arrival was certainly fortunate! Once the Aleth destroy one another, there won’t be any left to resist us.”
This restored the mood, and the generals turned to interrogating the messenger for specific troop placements, so that they could theorize how the battle would proceed. Ahven dismissed himself from their group with an acknowledging nod, then strolled over to stand beside Jek. He didn’t speak for a moment, instead watching the generals deliberate. The man was different when he was in public—he had a charismatic, aristocratic air about him. Regal, even. Jek could almost believe him to be an honorable man.
“You were surprised at my words,” Ahven finally said, turning to look at Jek.
“Yes,” Jek admitted.
“You disagree?”
“No, actually,” Jek said. “But I did not expect to hear you speak of nobility and honor. I would have thought that you would view Dalenar Kholin as a fool and a traditionalist.”
Ahven smiled to himself. He glanced back at the generals and their aides for a few more moments before returning to the conversation with Jek.
“What do men want in a leader, assassin?” he asked.
Jek frowned. “Eastern men, or Shin men?”
“They are the same,” Ahven said.
Hardly. Jek did not wish to argue the point, however. “Men look for strength. They want a leader who makes wise decisions, and moral men seek a leader who will act with honor.”
“Close,” Ahven said. “They do look for honor. But it is not morality that spurs them to do so—it is guilt.” Ahven turned away from Jek, looking over his army. “Man’s greatest desire is to delude himself, assassin. He seeks every opportunity to do so—in love, in faith, and especially in war. It is vital that soldiers be able to convince themselves that their leader is honorable, for only then can they place their sins upon him. They can pretend not to think; they can simply do as they are told. This is why men gravitate toward leaders with grand reputations for honor. Deep inside, however, we all know the truth. The leader’s duty is to accept the guilt of his followers—to give them reasons to kill, to lie about his nobility so they can cling to their fabricated beliefs.”
Generals deliberated and soldiers chatted, but Jek only heard the wind above. The leader’s duty is to accept the guilt of his followers . . .
Suddenly a number of things made sense.
“That’s why you do it,” Jek whispered. “The random killings. You’re trying to force yourself to be heartless.”
“A leader cannot afford a conscience, assassin,” Ahven said quietly. “He must be strong where his people are weak. When the difficult decisions arrive, he will have to make them—everyone will expect him to make them. Invading another kingdom, causing the deaths of thousands . . . No regular man could be expected to bear the guilt of such a decision. But a leader . . . a king . . . this is what they ask of him.”
Jek suppressed a shiver. There was a twisted nobility to the concept, and it unnerved him. “Bajerden thought differently.”
“Bajerden the Wise?” Ahven asked with amusement. “Author of The Way of Kings? Assassin, I learned these things from him.”
Jek snorted. “Then you weren’t listening very carefully. Bajerden, Fandeladana in our tongue, is the only Kanaran man to ever be granted a Truthname by the Shin.”
“And your people were wise to do so,” Ahven said. “For Bajerden truly understood the ways of men. What is The Way of Kings? A book that describes the ideal leader, a nobleman who sacrifices his will for the good of his people. Bajerden’s ‘Sovereign’ is a perfect man—a man of nobility, of mercy, and of virtue. An impossibility. Bajerden set up an ideal that could not be reached, and he did it intentionally, as an object lesson. He wanted to prove that no man could be what his people desired. Yet at the same time, Bajerden showed that this ideal man is what the leader must appear to be. The more perfectly a leader maintains the appearance that he is infallible, the more his soldiers will be able to ignore their own guilt, and the better they will fight. But if he falls . . .”
Jek shook his head. Disgust welled within him. “You are a broken embarrassment of a king, Ahven Vedenel,” he said quietly.
“Oh?” Ahven asked. “And what of you? What of the murders you have committed? The helpless and the young? What of their slaughters.”
“Those were your—” Jek broke off.
“My fault,” Ahven said, smiling slightly. “My guilt, not yours. You are a tool.”
“Your earlier logic does not hold,” Jek said angrily. “I don’t look to you for honor.”
“That is because for you, the illusion is broken,” Ahven said. “And for that, you hate me. If, however, I were someone you wanted to trust—say, one of your Shin holy men—things would be different. What if one of your Stone Shamans ordered you to kill a child? What if he convinced you that that child’s death would protect the greater good? Your shamans are the only ones who can order a violation of your all-powerful Truth, are they not?”
“They would never do such a thing,” Jek said. “You think you understand our ways, but you know nothing. The Holetental would not command the death of an innocent as you have.”
“Oh?” Ahven asked. “And what of the invasion nearly twenty years ago?”
Jek paused. “That was different.”
“Was it?” Ahven prompted. “You sided with Jarnah, the Conqueror. You invaded the Kanaran Peninsulas, slaying thousands, capturing Thalenah, Vedenar, and Prallah. And you did it all upon the word of your shamans, who claimed the Return had come again, that the Stormshades had returned to Roshar.”
Jek held his gaze firm, but he felt like looking away in shame. The Jarnah invasion was something few Shin wished to discuss.
“What happened at the end, assassin?” Ahven asked. “Did you find any demons to slay, or did you just find innocent soldiers? What of the claimed Return? Seventeen years have passed without sign of any monsters come to destroy humankind. Your shamans were wrong, but you listened to them anyway. You killed upon their word. Conquered, just as I do. What did your shamans see? Were their visions wrong? Or, perhaps, did they have a simpler motive? A desire to capture the lands to the east . . . an excuse.”
“Enough!” Jek snapped.
Ahven nodded with sagacious understanding.
You understand nothing, Idiot King, Jek thought furiously. You twist and pervert. The self-convincing, however, wasn’t strong enough to dispel the questions Ahven had raised. Jek stood for a few uncomfortable minutes, wrestling with what the Idiot King had said, until an annoyed Ilhadal appeared on the scene.
“Why was I not informed of the messenger’s arrival?” the hefty man demanded.
“Obviously you were, Lord Davar,” Ahven said smoothly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“Only because I left one of my men here to watch in case news arrive!” Ilhadal said. “I’m leader of House Davar—I should be sent for before an important messenger gives his report.”
One of the generals mumbled something to his companions, who smiled in agreement. There was a general opinion that Ilhadal shouldn’t leave aides to listen to the battle plans, but attend the meetings himself. However, Ilhadal hadn’t returned to the battle meetings ever since embarrassing himself on the first day, when he had displayed a noted lack of tactical understanding.
“An oversight,” Ahven promised. “No offence was intended, Lord Davar. Besides, this wasn’t really an important messenger. He simply told us that the battle had begun, but we knew that it would anyway.”
Ilhadal looked partially soothed by the words. “The two Aleth forces have met, then. When do we march?”
“Soon,” Ahven p
romised. “Tomorrow morning, likely. We will arrive that evening, then attack the following morning. Whatever forces are left will give us little trouble—though, if you wish, you may join with our generals as they plan our attack . . .”
Ilhadal paled just slightly. “I have no time,” he said. “I must prepare my men to march. Good day, Ahven.”
The king smiled as Ilhadal scrambled away, a host of attendants and aides trailing behind him. “That man will have to be dealt with eventually,” Ahven said quietly, so only Jek could hear. “I cannot have a man beneath me, even a House Leader, who shows such disrespect. It weakens the soldiers’ confidence in me.”
Jek found himself nodding, then paused. He would never be able to take one of Ahven’s comments about leadership the same way again.
“He needn’t be killed,” Jek said quietly. “You could always just embarrass him. That seems to work well with . . .” he trailed off as he realized Ahven wasn’t watching his lips. The king’s eyes were instead focused on something in the distance.
Jek turned, squinting against the late morning light, and made out another rider approaching, pass-flag flapping in the wind. Like the previous messenger, the man approached Ahven’s pavilion directly. When he dismounted, it was obvious from his expression that he bore urgent—and probably unpleasant—news.
Jek frowned. He didn’t recognize the messenger, a youthful, thin man, short enough that he could have been mistaken for a child. A long-distance messenger, chosen for his post because of his light body.
“You aren’t from the battlefield,” Ahven said with surprise, just as Jek realized the same thing. “You came from Ral Eram.”
“Yes, my majesty. I bring important news.”
Ahven frowned, glancing at the generals. He obviously wasn’t pleased that the messenger had sought him out in public. “Does this relate to the war against Alethkar?” Ahven asked carefully.
The Way of Kings Prime Page 72