Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

by The Way of Kings Prime (ALTERNATIVE VERSION) (pdf)

  Even to one who knew the king’s secret, this man sounded like a half-wit.

  Third Lord Talshekh was a burly man. He wore little jewelry—the

  massive Shardblade in his hand was ornamentation enough. It was a thick,

  curved weapon, and matched his heavyset legs and build. He seemed

  less like a man and more like a chull in Shardplate.

  “You have freed us,” Ahven said. He spoke the words that were passing

  like a wave through the city—words encouraged by the group of lords Jek

  had left behind with the Puppeteer, the men who had killed their supposed

  leader and delivered his head to the invader. They hailed Talshekh not

  as a conqueror, but as a liberator—a man who had come to cleanse the

  corruption from the capital. It was claimed that the entire city had been

  beneath the thumb of the Lord Puppeteer, and that he had practically kept

  the other nobility in bondage.

  Talshekh stood for a moment, his eyes unreadable. His trusted Shard-

  bearers stood behind him, arrayed as they had been as they marched

  through the broad doors.

  “You have pleased the crown,” Ahven said.

  Talshekh stood for a moment longer, then turned and strode from the

  throne room—leaving Ahven alive.

  Jek closed his eyes, pulling back into the pillared shadows of the throne

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  room’s far corner. If Talshekh had killed the Idiot King, then Jek would

  have had an opportunity to plea for his Bondstone. Another chance—

  perhaps—to be set free.

  That was not going to happen. Jek still had a master. He opened his

  eyes, leaving the shadows and following Ahven into the dressing chamber

  at the side of the throne room. Ahven sat patiently, waiting as attendants removed his royal jewelry. It was several minutes until they were alone and could speak freely, and Jek spent the entire time wondering.

  “You think I should be dead,” Ahven said with amusement as the final

  attendant left.

  “You should be,” Jek said.

  Ahven shook his head. “You don’t understand Lord Talshekh Davar,” he

  said. “He didn’t just want revenge. He wants much more. Do you realize

  that no one man has ever conquered all of Kanar?”

  “Yes,” Jek said.

  “They tell stories of those who have tried. Nev Windvoice, Sadees

  the Sunmaker . . . even Jarnah, who is only twenty years dead. Talshekh

  likes those stories. He likes them very much.”

  “If he wants to conquer the eastern peninsulas,” Jek said, “he’ll first need to be king of his own nation. He should have taken your head, and your

  title.”

  Ahven shook his head. “Lord Reinar is rising to arms in the south,” he

  said.

  “Talshekh has more troops,” Jek responded. “And more Shardblades.

  He will defeat Reinar.”

  “Ah, but which would he rather be?” Ahven said. “The conquering tyrant,

  or the dutiful subject, putting down a rebellion? Vedenel gave itself to him, and its king welcomed him. He knows he can take the throne any time he

  wishes. If he leaves me, he can march south with the legitimacy of royal

  support. He will gain the allegiance of the more traditional lords—those

  who would have resisted him as a conqueror, but will welcome him as the

  liberator of Veden City. He can put down Reinar, then have me quietly

  executed. He becomes king not by the sword, but by consent of a loyal—and

  loving—people.”

  Jek paused in thought.

  “If you want to conquer the world,” Ahven said, “you need more than

  armies. You need loyalty. You need both love and fear. You need to be seen as more than a man—you need to be a force, like the winds themselves.

  Men do not resist divinity. If every land you leave behind rises against your

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  rule, then you will need to spend all your time squashing rebellions rather than conquering new land.”

  “He will still come for you,” Jek challenged. “Even if what you say is true, Talshekh will need to be king. You will have to die.”

  Ahven smiled. “I have another list for you,” he said. “These men need to

  be dead before Talshekh returns. You won’t have much time—he will gain

  momentum as he marches south, especially when word of what happened

  here arrives. Vedens do not like to fight their kinsmen. Reinar will be

  forced to surrender, or to fight in a single battle—the longer he draws it out, the more of his supporters will join with Talshekh. The war could be

  over within a month’s time, especially if you do your job quickly.”

  Jek nodded, and memorized the names as Ahven spoke them.

  chapter 21

  JASNAH 5

  “Lady Denrah will support you,” Shinri said as she pulled the

  brush through Jasnah’s hair. “She knows you are the reason Dalenar

  gave her husband leave to recruit in Pebble’s Perch.”

  Jasnah nodded—that particular negotiation had required a great deal of

  persuasion on her part. Though Dalenar was a very noble man, he was still

  a lord—and was loath to lose citizens to another city, even one within the same kingdom.

  “I think you have allies in the Nivesh family as well,” Shinri continued.

  “They’ll need more convincing,” Jasnah said. “Lady Evash is intimidated

  by Nanavah’s posturing. She’ll need more assurances before she’ll move

  on her dislike of the queen. Perhaps if I persuade Elhokar to promote her

  cousin . . . the boy did very well in the Prallah war. His heavy infantry

  squad certainly did its share of damage.”

  Shinri nodded, continuing to brush. “It’s working, my lady. The women

  thought your return would be as a spring storm—come and gone almost

  without notice. Everyone assumed you would be married and gone without

  ever re-entering court life.”

  “That is probably what Nanavah promised them,” Jasnah said, looking

  into the mirror as Shinri brushed.

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  “Anyway,” Shinri continued, “now they’re worried that you’ll regain your

  old influence, and that Lady Nanavah isn’t as invincible as they assumed. I think you’ll find some of your allies will begin returning.”

  Jasnah nodded to herself. It had taken continued effort during the last

  month, but she was determined not to let the royal court ignore her. She

  used what resources she had—the money from Elhokar’s stipend, her

  influence with both king and Parshen, reminders of her former power—to forge a new place for herself at court. It was going slowly, but it was working.

  As she brushed, Shinri idly pulled the hair away from Jasnah’s neck. It

  was at that moment that the girl’s gem-studded bracelet touched Jasnah’s

  skin.

  Jasnah gasped as the room detonated with sound. Two separate gem-

  stones on the bracelet, jezinite and sapphire, touched at the same time, and the power of their notes assaulted her mind like screams. Each one pul ed at her, a demanding set of vibrations that shook her soul, fighting with one

  another for her attention.

  Shinri’s arm passed, the gemstones breaking contact, and all was silent

  again.

  “My lady?” Shinri asked with concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Jasnah said, shivering slightly, struggling to banish the echoes
>
  within. “Please, take off your bracelet when you brush, Shinri. It caught a piece of my hair and yanked it.”

  “Oh!” Shinri gasped. “I’m sorry, my lady.”

  “It’s all right,” Jasnah said, composing herself as the gemstones’ cries

  faded in her mind.

  There was a knock at the door, and Shinri went to answer it. It was

  probably Kemnar—Jasnah had sent him to Peacehome Monastery to deliver

  a message for her.

  Shinri returned a moment later, her face troubled. “My lady,” she said,

  “you have a visitor.”

  Jasnah frowned. It wasn’t that late—the sun had barely set, and many

  people would still be awake—but she had retired early to compose letters

  to the budding nobility in the new Aleth state of Pralir. She had instructed Kemnar to set up her audience with Ralmakha for the next day. Knowing

  the monk, he had probably come immediately just to inconvenience her.

  “Tell Brother Ralmakha to wait,” Jasnah said, rising.

  “Ralmakha?” Shinri asked. “My lady, it’s Lord Balenmar.”

  Jasnah paused, frowning. Balenmar? She turned, regarding herself in the

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  mirror. She was dressed only in a sencoat—a cloak-like robe that wrapped

  around the chest and tied at the waist with a sash. Her hair was down,

  her face washed. She was in no condition to receive a male visitor. But,

  Balenmar . . . the old man wouldn’t visit a lady’s chambers so late unless it were important.

  “Bring me my cloak,” Jasnah said.

  Shinri rushed to fetch the fine seasilk cloak and place it around Jasnah’s shoulders. It was feminine in cut, designed to hang loosely around the body and to close completely at the front. Jasnah did the clasps inside, enveloping her entire body in the garment, then moved into her sitting room, seating

  herself in one of its stiff-backed chairs. It was no audience chamber, but at least it was better than the bedroom.

  She nodded to Shinri, who disappeared around the corner into the entry

  hallway. A moment later, she returned with the aging stormkeeper. The

  man leaned wizenedly on his cane, and his eyes were wrinkled with worry.

  Shinri hurriedly brought the man a chair, and he seated himself.

  “What’s wrong?” Jasnah asked.

  The old man sat with his cane planted before him, both hands resting on

  top of it. He wore a fine blue shirt beneath the cloak, and a pair of loose trousers. Finally, he reached into his cloak pocket and retrieved a rolled piece of paper. He proffered it to Jasnah. “You keep asking for proof,” he said.

  Jasnah paused, then reached out from beneath her cloak and accepted the

  paper. It was a letter, scrawled in a hasty hand. The Stormkin move on your word, my lord. He who hinders you will be subdued within the month.

  Jasnah raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s the firmest proof I’ve been able to discover,” Balenmar said. “You

  have heard of the Jenchal? ”

  Jasnah shook her head.

  “The Jenchal—The Stormkin—are a group of assassins based out of Palinar,” Balenmar explained. “It is whispered that they have a new patron—a

  very important, and very rich, patron. These are a very elite group, Jasnah—

  they’re only hired to do important jobs.”

  “Where did you get this?” Jasnah asked, holding up the sheet.

  “It’s a copy,” Balenmar admitted. “The original is held by one of my

  contacts in Crossguard—I could not afford to purchase it. My lady, this

  message was delivered to Jezenrosh himself.”

  Jasnah grew cold.

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  “Jezenrosh hates your brother, Jasnah,” Balenmar said with a solemn

  voice. “I don’t know why that is, but my sources are firm. Elhokar may

  consider my usefulness suspect, but I have been alive for a long, long time.

  Even you would be surprised at the places I have informants—men who

  may not like your brother, but who would do anything to see stability

  maintained in Alethkar. The fact that Jezenrosh has hired the Jenchal was confirmed just this afternoon by four separate sources. Jasnah, we can only assume the worst.”

  Jasnah sat back, thoughtful within the warmth of her cloak. “Jezenrosh

  and my brother may have had disagreements,” she said, “but this . . . ?

  Balenmar, are you certain?”

  “My lady,” Balenmar said. “My facts are based on hearsay, and my worries

  based on conjecture. These assassins may not even exist, or if they do, its possible Jezenrosh is using them for another purpose. But if one were going to make a ploy for the throne, now would be a good time—the kingdom

  is tired and weak from war, and some of the king’s best supporters died on the battlefield. Even if there were suspicion of foul play at the king’s death, most would be hesitant to launch into a civil war.”

  Jasnah shook her head. “We don’t know enough.”

  “That is why I brought this to you instead of the king,” Balenmar said.

  “You know how to be . . . delicate.”

  “Very well,” Jasnah said. “I will look into it. I’ve an . . . acquaintance who is somewhat close to Parshen Jezenrosh.”

  Balenmar nodded, rising. “Thank you, Jasnah. Your brother is not the

  easiest man to like, but he is the son of Nolhonarin. For that, he deserves my loyalty.”

  “Shinri,” Jasnah requested. “See Lord Balenmar to the door, and find out

  if Kemnar has returned from the monastery yet.”

  “Yes, my lady,” she said, escorting the aging man as he rose to leave.

  Jasnah sat back in consternation, pondering on what the stormkeeper

  had said. Jezenrosh wouldn’t be the first Parshen to try and take the throne for himself. He had withdrawn from the Prallah war following a serious

  disagreement with the king, and now he had hired a team of assassins. It

  did not look good.

  She was pleased to see Kemnar enter a few moments later, Shinri trailing

  behind. The short guardsman gave a quick bow. “I had to wait until the

  break between evening services before he would see me, my lady,” the man

  explained.

  “But I have an audience with him tomorrow?”

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  “Um, no, my lady,” Kemnar said. “The monk refused your invitation.”

  “What?” Jasnah demanded.

  “He . . . said he was too busy at the monastery to visit the palace,”

  Kemnar explained. “He mentioned that if you wanted to see him, he does

  readings from the Arguments five times daily.”

  Jasnah closed her eyes, composing herself. That man . . . Monks were outside of traditional societal structure—Ralmakha could ignore a command

  from any nobleman but the king. However, after speaking with Balenmar,

  it was even more important that she see him.

  “Kemnar,” she said, standing. “Go and tell my bearers to prepare my litter.

  Shinri, fetch my violet talla.”

  “My lady?” Shinri asked. “You’re actually going to visit the monastery?”

  “Of course,” Jasnah replied. “Evening service should just be ending. The

  monk will have no excuse but to make time for an old friend.”

  Of the four Vorin monastic sects, the Order of Kavel was the most

  unassuming. Its members tended to focus on the Common Arts, teaching

  functional crafts and providing care for those unable to do so for themselves.

  Peacehome monastery personified this philosophy.

  Once one passed through
the glyph-covered double gates and entered the

  inner courtyard, it was easy to see that this was a place of practicality and order. The stone buildings were kept clean, free of cromstone stalactites. The stone ground of the courtyard had been carefully leveled and smoothed,

  and was kept free of chips and gouges. Lanterns had been lit to stave off

  the evening darkness, and a small number of people trickled from the

  buildings, the last remnants of those who had attended the evening service.

  Jasnah’s litter caused only a moderate stir. Other litters marked the

  presence of a few noblemen—while the Kavel philosophy tended to attract

  citizens more than lords, there were still some of her colleagues who preferred its simplicity. The core theology of the four sects was the same; the

  difference lay in the artistic lessons they offered and the charge—or lack thereof—for such lessons.

  Jasnah tapped for her bearers to lower the litter. She had chosen her more lavish vehicle—the one with seasilk curtains as opposed to wooden sides.

  Summer was near, and highstorms were growing increasingly infrequent.

  The palace stormkeepers said the next one wouldn’t come until the middle

  of the next day.

  Jasnah climbed from the litter, composed herself, then climbed the steps

  to the devotion hall, the largest building in the complex. The hall displayed

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  a bit of richness, with delicate spiral columns and numerous mosaics lining the inner hallway—despite Kavel’s humble nature, Peacehome Monastery

  was one of the largest buildings in Ral Eram. In the First City, even the

  slums were a bit ostentatious.

  The looks of surprise began the moment she was recognized. Monks

  paused in their labors, turning with amazed expressions as she swept down

  the tiled hallway, Kemnar and Nelshenden following behind. Citizens

  whispered to one another with excitement as she passed, and several lords

  stopped dead in their tracks, regarding her with stupefaction. Jasnah kept her eyes forward, her pace unrushed, ignoring the air of curiosity. It was natural, of course—the entire city knew that it had been over a decade since Jasnah was last seen inside a Vorin monastery.

  Before her lay a pair of open doors, emblazoned with a mysticized

  representation of the Double Eye—the twenty palen glyphs connected by lines in the shape of a sideways hourglass. She remembered the doors from