“It’s unlikely that Tethren is . . . looking elsewhere, Shinri,” Jasnah said consolingly. “He is known to be a very honorable man—and he seems truly
devoted to you. There must be another explanation.”
“I know, my lady,” Shinri said. “But . . . could you ask anyway?”
Jasnah paused for a moment. It was early in the feast to begin correspon-
dences, but she could see several other women already beginning to scribe
notes. “Very well,” Jasnah said. “I have things I need to discover as well.
Bring me some paper, then go change for the feast.”
Shinri nodded, rising from the bench and hurriedly fetching Jasnah
some paper and a small brushpen from the side of the room. Afterward,
she withdrew from the room.
Jasnah idly picked up an eating spear as she composed her thoughts—the
metal skewer was tipped with a ruby, and she was very careful not to let it touch her skin as she stabbed a chunk of pork and slipped it in her mouth.
The pork’s sharp flavor gave her pause—she hadn’t realized how much she
missed the conveniences of a full chef ’s staff. During the war, she had often
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been forced to subsist off Awakened grain. While nutritious, such rations
were relatively mundane.
The pork, like all of the other items on the table, had been prepared
specially for the female tables. Each dish had either been fried or seared after cooking so that it wouldn’t drip and ruin expensive seasilk tallahs.
Like the other women, Jasnah ate with her right hand, her left hand held
demurely in her lap, cloaked in the folds of the long left sleeve. The eating spears were long and thin, and the dishes had all been arranged in small
chunks to allow for meticulous eating.
The men, of course, would have none of that. They ate with stocky
eating spears in one hand, thick knives in the other. Their food would have been prepared after more masculine tastes, with sharp spices and extra
seasonings. Jasnah had once tasted a man’s dish out of curiosity, and the
spiciness of it had left her mouth burning for what seemed like days.
Eventually, she turned her attention to writing. She set aside her spear,
and picked up the brushpen, careful y scribing on the thick white paper. She first wrote notes to those women she trusted—or, at least, had trusted—the most, then moved on to those she didn’t trust at all, but who often had
valuable information.
“It’s early in the dinner for such furious writing,” a familiar voice interrupted after a short time of scribing.
She looked up to a smiling Balenmar. He stood beside her table, stooped
against his cane, looking as old as the winds themselves.
“You don’t mind if I sit, do you?” he asked, moving over to a stool.
“Of course not,” Jasnah replied. Few men would even consider joining
one of the female tables, but Balenmar was . . . somewhat outside of normal conventions. Stormkeepers, the scholars trained in Thalenah, weren’t
completely free from social conventions like Vorin monks were, but they
were generally given more leeway.
The old man sighed, settling down on the stool and laying his cane across
his lap. He smiled. “It seems this body of mine moves more and more slowly with each passing storm. Someday, I fear it shall simply freeze, and I’ll be stuck standing in the middle of the hallway like a statue.”
Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “Well, if that happens, we’ll be certain to have a maid stop by to dust you off every once in a while.” She glanced toward
the king’s table, where an empty chair marked the place Balenmar had been
sitting just moments ago. It was at the very far end of the table, a ways away from the king and his Parshen—but it was still at the king’s table, a far more distinguished position than Balenmar had ever held in Elhokar’s court.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 81
“It appears that the king appreciated your news,” Jasnah said.
“Indeed,” Balenmar said.
“And what is it going to take for me to find out what, exactly, you two
discussed?”
Balenmar eyed her in his unconcerned way, then reached over and
selected an eating skewer and tasted an inavah cake. “Parshen Jezenrosh isn’t here.”
“He’s been sick,” Jasnah replied carefully. “He never recovered from the
illness he gained in Prallah.”
Balenmar raised his eyebrows. “Ten months. That’s a long time to be
sick.”
“My mother has been sick for longer,” Jasnah pointed out.
“Your mother is not sick, child,” Balenmar said. “She is dying. Jezenrosh, I assure you, is not. There is something going on in Crossguard. When
Elhokar left for the war, he brought his most ardent supporters with him.
What does that say for the noblemen he left behind? Noblemen left alone
for the better part of two years . . . six months of that spent with access to a discontent cousin to the throne . . .”
“You speak of dangerous things,” Jasnah said.
“Someone sent that man to kill Elhokar on the battlefield, Jasnah,”
Balenmar said. “Someone who wanted, very much, for it to appear that
Elhokar was killed by a Prallan who broke Protocol. And, with the king
dead, Alethkar would need a new leader to seek a double vengeance upon
Pralir. Elhokar’s son is far too young—and that would present a very
convenient opportunity for an aspiring nobleman.”
“Proof?” Jasnah asked.
“Nothing substantial yet,” Balenmar said. “But the king appreciated my
conclusions. I’m looking.”
Jasnah digested the information. Jezenrosh’s absence was conspicuous,
though he and Elhokar had been at odds since their childhood. Elhokar
had chosen Jezenrosh as his second Parshen for tradition’s sake, and had done so at Jasnah’s strong suggestion. She had hoped that by working
together, they would overcome their differences—unfortunately, their
relationship had only grown worse by the forced association.
But would Jezenrosh try and have the king killed? It was far-fetched. The
Parshen had never displayed that kind of ambition before.
“How sure of this are you?” she asked.
Balenmar shook his head. “My specific information was regarding
the attack itself, not who performed it. But the rest seems obvious.”
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Jasnah nodded. “All right,” she said. “I’ll remember this, Balenmar. I’m
in your debt.”
Balenmar raised an eyebrow. “Jasnah dear, just because I play the game
doesn’t mean I don’t care about Alethkar. I served Nolhonarin all his days; I would do the same for Elhokar. I came to you not to extort favors, but
because I fear for the king’s safety. Despite the danger, he won’t let me
help him as he should. Do you remember the night before Jezenrosh’s
departure?”
Jasnah nodded.
“Something happened between Jezenrosh and your brother that night.
There was an argument between the two of them, but Elhokar refuses to
tell me what it was about. I don’t trust the boy to take care of himself, and I certainly don’t trust the queen to look after him.”
Jasnah eyed the queen’s table. “Agreed.”
Balenmar sighed. “Perhaps the king was right to leave me behind from
the war. Old men don’t travel well—we complain more than we advise,
and we find it hard to see the regality of the son when all we remember is his father. However, Elhokar needs us now, even if he doesn’t realize it.”
Jasnah was still watching the queen’s table. “You were right about her.
Balenmar nodded, chewing on the edges of his cake with a thoughtful
face. “Things haven’t quite been the same here this last year, child. The
records say I was in charge, but sometimes it really didn’t feel that way.”
“When did it happen?” Jasnah asked. “When I left her, Nanavah was
about as savvy as a chunk of granite.”
Balenmar shrugged. “She’s her father’s daughter, Jasnah. At first it
seemed she’d only inherited his temper, but apparently there was more
hiding underneath than we assumed. There have been rumblings in Jah
Keved—people are less and less pleased with having the Idiot King on the
throne. Perhaps she fears her brother’s throne will fall, and has realized that she needs to be a stronger force in politics if she wants to keep her power. Either way, watch yourself with her. She’s been quite efficient in
her conquest—you’ll find few allies left.”
Jasnah nodded. “I noticed,” she mumbled.
Balenmar set down the eating spear, half of the cake uneaten, as he
moved to rise. “I don’t see how you stand this food—it’s so terribly bland.”
“It suits us,” Jasnah replied.
“As you will. Anyway, we should not speak of these things here. I will
contact you if my sniffings turn up anything more concrete. Just . . . be
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 83
wary, Lady Kholin. Your brother’s life is far more at danger in his own bed than it ever was on that battlefield.”
Jasnah felt a chill, but nodded.
Balenmar stood on wearied legs. “I should go, my lady. Your brother
plans to make some sort of announcement in a few moments.”
“Announcement?” Jasnah asked.
Balenmar shrugged. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
Jasnah frowned as the old man hobbled away. What was Elhokar plan-
ning? Why hadn’t he mentioned it to her? It was probably nothing, but . . .
She sighed, turning back to her letters. There was nothing to do for the
moment but find out just how limited her resources were. Shinri returned
a few moments later, looking far more formal than before. She had redone
her braids and her facepaint, and had exchanged her talla for a gorgeous yel ow one with dark blue embroidery. She wore a necklace of ruby to match her hair, and her favorite jade bracelet.
“Do you intend to sing tonight?” Jasnah asked the girl.
Shinri glanced toward the balladess stand. “I’m not sure, my lady,” she
confessed. “With everything that’s happening . . .”
“You should,” Jasnah told her. “We need to re-establish ourselves in
Ral Eram. It would be good to remind the court what it’s missed in your
absence.”
“Yes, my lady,” Shinri said as Jasnah handed her a pile of letters. The girl moved off to do as commanded.
Shinri wasn’t the only one running letters. The women of the court saw
feasts as a perfect opportunity for correspondence, since replies could be received so quickly. The men paid little heed to the bustling messengers,
laughing and feasting, inavah wine flowing freely. Intrigue was the game
of their women; if there was anything important to be learned, their wives and daughters would inform them the next day—preferably late in the day,
once they’d slept off the payment for their night’s celebrations.
Jasnah waited patiently for replies to her notes. Eventually, she heard
a familiar voice sounding in the hall. Conversations quieted and people
glanced toward the balladess pedestal despite the fact that there had been singing, in one form or another, during the entire feast.
Shinri’s voice was beautiful. She had chosen to sing “Windborn Fate,”
a melancholy ballad about a lost love, and its haunting melody drew the
attention even of the king, who stopped talking to Meridas long enough
to listen.
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Jasnah smiled. Shinri didn’t use her voice to her advantage as much as
she should—like politics, singing was one of the prime Feminine Noble
Arts. A noblewoman with talent such as Shinri’s could use the renown she
earned for great political leverage—people would be more likely to attend
a nobleman’s party if they knew that there was a chance that a renowned
balladess would be performing.
Eventually, people returning to their feasting. Shinri sang several more
ballads, during which Jasnah received several correspondences, all unrelated to her inquiries. Most of them were welcomes regarding Jasnah’s return,
though a few were apologies from women she had invited to sit at her table.
She prepared careful replies as she waited—it had been a long time since
she’d had to pander to the court women, but it appeared that she was going to have to reacquaint herself with the process.
Elhokar’s announcement came before any of the women replied to
Jasnah’s questions. He raised himself up from the king’s table, pushing
his chair out behind him, only a little bit tipsy. The room grew quiet as
he cleared his throat, holding forth a hand sparkling with rings. Shinri
stopped singing, and took the opportunity to pick her way back toward
Jasnah’s table, abandoning the balladess pedestal to another woman.
“It is certainly good to be among friends in our home country again,”
the king said in a firm voice. There were murmurs of approval among the
men at this. “We have fought well, and revenged ourselves upon the man
who took the life of my father, the king. It has been a difficult war—difficult to leave our families, difficult to see the deaths of our friends. But that is the price of justice.
“Now, however, is a time for celebration. The land of Pralir—nearly half
of the ancient kingdom of Prallah—is ours. There have been spoils won.
Many of these have been awarded to those who fought most loyally, others
must be retained by the crown for its own reasons. There are some rewards, however, that have not yet been placed.”
Elhokar gestured toward the back of the room, where several noblemen
entered, pulling a small cloth-draped cart between them. One threw off
the cloth, exposing five gleaming weapons. Shardblades.
There was a hiss from the king’s table, and Jasnah glanced back toward it.
Dalenar’s visage had turned notably hostile, though he contained himself.
Renarin’s Shardblade was among the five.
“These weapons have no claimant,” Elhokar explained. “Several were
won by the eyes of keen archers, who felled enemy Shardbearers from a dis-
tance. Others came from our own men, who died with no heir. Others . . .”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 85
Elhokar paused, not looking at Dalenar. “Came from other sources. While
all Blades that were not won in single combat and are without heir are
traditionally mine to bestow, I have set aside these five to be special rewards.
“Lords and ladies, we shall have a dueling competition—a competition
such as they had in the days of my grandfather, before the wars and pain of my time. The winners shall not only carry away honor, but shall earn
themselves Shardblades and the title that goes with them.”
Th
is caused an excited stir. Normally, there were only three ways to get a Blade: inherit it, earn it from the king, or defeat a Shardbearer in combat.
The three methods were increasingly unlikely, and even the first was a
hopeless dream for most men. The opportunity Elhokar proposed was
rare indeed.
Jasnah sat thoughtfully as the hall burst with discussions. It was an
interesting move, but a potentially brilliant one. Years of warfare had depressed the kingdom and strained allegiances—a chance for such festivities would enhance Elhokar’s popularity. There were few things the people of
Roshar—noble and citizen alike—liked more than an exciting duel.
“Any man of noble rank or of First Citizen status may participate,”
Elhokar continued. “Traveling duelists or duelists from the countries of
our allies—Jah Keved and Thalenah—may participate in the festivities and
the lesser events, though they may not win a Blade. The competition will
occur in sixty days, and I wish it to be well-attended—in fact, I demand
it. Every nobleman of Fifth rank or above is hereby commanded to come
to Ral Eram for the festival, though he need not participate himself. Most especially, every Shardbearer in my realm must attend. Let the news be
spread.”
Jasnah frowned. A nobleman would be a fool to miss a social opportunity
such as this one; Elhokar didn’t need to command them to attend. Jasnah
eyed Meridas, who seemed far less tipsy than the other men, then shot a
glance at Nanavah, who sat speaking with the women of her table. Finally
she looked back up at Elhokar, who had seated himself once again.
What are you planning, Brother? What is it you aren’t telling me?
Several moments later, replies to Jasnah’s questions began to arrive.
Shinri watched the deliveries eagerly, and Jasnah reluctantly turned her
attention from her brother to the communiqués.
At least they had the courtesy to respond, Jasnah thought, opening the messages and scanning their contents. She had feared that the letters would be terse and uninformative, but apparently she retained enough political
might to ensure her requests were taken seriously. The women she had
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contacted were expert politicians—the wives of Third and Fourth Lords.
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 12
