Jek approached, and the guards let him pass without comment.
“You found the girl?” Ahven asked, turning toward Jek, watching his
lips. Still deaf? But he sounded so natural.
“Yes,” Jek replied. “She was at the competition.”
Ahven nodded. “And there was an attempt on the king’s life?”
“Two Shardbearers, sent by Elhokar’s own Parshen,” Jek said. “They were not successful.”
“They were never intended to be,” Ahven said cryptically. “Alethkar will
rise in civil war. It seems to be common, these days.”
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Jek did not respond. There was much activity in the army camp, a strange
parallel of the fervor that had struck Veden City only hours before. Torches and lanterns scurried between the different sections of the army, and men
stood alert, weapons drawn. Jek could hear the ringing of weapons in the
background, and flame-lit smoke curled in the air from several groups of tents.
This was still an enemy army, despite Ahven’s stunt in killing Talshekh.
Veden City would still be captured, Ahven killed. Slaying Talshekh had
done little but delay—what was Ahven’s plan?
“It’s almost over,” Ahven said. There was something . . . odd to his tone.
Jek realized that he had been wrong. Ahven’s accent wasn’t gone; he still
retained a noticeable flatness to his tone, but his words sounded mostly
natural now, compared to what they had been like before. Someone who
didn’t know Ahven was deaf might judge the slight oddity to be a person-
ality quirk.
“How?” Jek asked.
Ahven didn’t notice the comment. Jek stepped up, drawing Ahven’s
attention. “How?” he repeated. “Your voice. How did you do it?”
“Speech coaches,” Ahven said absently. “They taught me to exaggerate
the dullness of my words, then to sharpen their clarity. I wasn’t completely deaf as a child—I remember some of what it is like to speak and hear. I’m
told I don’t sound perfect and likely never will, but it suits my purposes.”
“How did you know you could kill Talshekh?” Jek asked. “You knew
from the ballads he chose? You knew he would be impetuous, and that you
could defeat him in swordplay?”
Ahven smiled, looking back toward the tents. “No,” he said. “On that,
I gambled. The Veden Lords are tyrants and warriors. We play prettily by
the words of Bajerden, but at our hearts we are despots. They would never
accept a leader who could not defeat an opponent in battle.”
“There will be other duels,” Jek warned. “Ones you cannot win. Your
surprise is expended.”
“I will appoint champions,” Ahven said. “One win is enough, for now.
By the time this all is through, no one will even remember I won that
duel by chance.”
By chance. Jek shook his head, uncertain how to judge this man once
called idiot. “You only have nine birds left,” Jek said carefully.
Ahven inhaled softly, his eyes flashing with . . . rage? Intolerance? It
was gone so quickly that Jek missed it. The king turned from Jek, waving
for the royal soldiers to move forward. They did as commanded, carrying
a collection of cloth and poles to the area just outside the city gates. A few
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minutes later, they had erected an open-sided pavilion, one inscribed with a massive glyph—the Kanaran symbol for peace.
“Who will you parlay with?” Jek asked. “They still fight amongst them-
selves.”
“It has been decided already,” Ahven said. “Those who resist do so out
of frustration, not out of hope. You decided their new leader for them.”
Jek paused. “Me?”
Ahven nodded. “Everyone with a more suitable claim is now dead.
Come.”
Jek followed, unconvinced. However, in accordance with Ahven’s
implication, a contingent of soldiers left the gathering of tents, marching forward to the parlay tent. At their head was a middle-aged man Jek did
not recognize.
Ahven seated himself in a chair provided by one of his attendants,
then nodded for the newcomer to take the opposite chair. The man did
not sit. He was shorter, and did not have the traditional look of a Veden
warrior. His features weren’t hard enough, his eyes too keen with cleverness.
His Shardblade was not summoned, but two of his soldiers carried theirs
openly.
“I do not see what we have to discuss,” the man said.
“But you came to my tent anyway, Lord Ilhadal Davar,” Ahven said. “That
implies, at least, curiosity.”
“I wished only to see you, and to hear your words with my own ears,”
Lord Ilhadal said. “I see the stories are true. It appears that our idiot made fools of us all. Some men do not take well to such mockery.”
“Are you saying that you’re completely surprised?” Ahven asked with
amusement. “That you’ve never heard reports from your spies that the king
might not be the fool he implied?”
Ilhadal did not reply.
“Come now, Ilhadal,” Ahven said. “I know you. You are ambitious, like
Talshekh, but you are not the impetuous buffoon your cousin was. You are
patient, and you are careful. You prefer a building subtlety to a sudden and obnoxious crescendo. You make plans for your future, and make allegiances
with skill.”
Ilhadal snorted. “What do you know of me, King?” he snapped. “We
have never met, nor spoken.”
“You would be surprised,” Ahven said. “But that is irrelevant. You can’t
afford to attack me now. Your army is grand, but it is barely under your
control. Ours is a superstitious people, my lord. They may have given
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you their hesitant support, but they will break if you try to take the throne from one the Almighty obviously chose Himself.”
Ilhadal snorted again, but Jek could see concern in his eyes. Part of what Ahven had said, at least, was true.
“What do you propose, then?” Ilhadal said. “I have an army but no
throne. You have a throne, but no army. Instability aside, I think one of us is in a far better position.”
“You have a daughter, do you not?” Ahven said offhandedly.
Ilhadal froze. “What of Shinri?” he growled. “She is safe, in Alethkar.”
Ahven smiled, leaning forward. “You misunderstand me, my lord.
Consider this. You will never sit on the throne of the Three Houses.”
Ilhadal’s face darkened.
Ahven raised a finger, speaking quietly. “But your grandson might.”
Ilhadal stood in silence. Then, slowly, he seated himself in the offered
chair. “Speak on.”
“I will need something in return for my good faith,” Ahven said.
Ilhadal’s mood darkened even further in the torchlight. “I would think
that your continued reign would be gift enough.”
Ahven shook his head. “I did not gather this army to let it disperse
unfulfilled. The Aleth king will soon go to war with his countrymen.
Alethkar is already weakened from years of battle and from the need to
keep a controlling force in Prallah. The civil war will be quick, but it will be destructive. If a strong force were to move in and crush the last of their armies . . .”
This gave Ilhadal pau
se. “They are our allies, Ahven,” he noted.
“Then let us be civil and remove from them the burden of rule,” Ahven
replied. “They obviously cannot maintain it themselves, though it was kind of them to capture Prallah for us. Tell, me, Ilhadal. Why would you want
to deliver your grandson one throne, when you could give him three?”
“It will not be as easy as you imply,” Ilhadal said. “My holdings are to the north. The borders of Alethkar are always well-patrolled. They will hear
of our coming, and they will unite against us. Instead of preying on their squabbles, we will restore their monarchy.”
“Not if we don’t go through the border,” Ahven said.
“The sea?” Ilhadal asked. “It would take too long to gather the Lakhenran
navy. Besides, Teth Kanar would make the only suitable port, and it will be well-defended, even in times of civil war.”
“We won’t use the sea either,” Ahven said.
“What, then?” Ilhadal demanded.
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“The Oathgates.”
Ilhadal snorted. “Ridiculous. Even Elhokar Kholin wouldn’t be foolish
enough to let an army through the Oathgates. They need to be opened
from both sides.”
“Getting through the Oathgate is my concern,” Ahven said. “Your duty
is to return to your men and secure hold of your forces. I will proclaim our allegiance—that should give you help. Once you are finished there, fetch
your wife. She has a Right of Decision to exercise.”
Part 2
chapter 34
DALENAR 2
Even after two and a half months back from the war, the sweet
breezes of Kholinar felt foreign to Dalenar. The fertile cliffs of the lait, green with hanging vines and blooming rockbuds, were unnatural to eyes
accustomed to stormland browns. The winds, gentle even during summer
highstorms, seemed to taunt him with their weakness.
Dalenar stood on his palace balcony, his posture stiff though he was
alone. He had thought to find peace in returning to Kholinar, but peace
was something that had been lost to him for far too long. When he closed
his eyes, swords clanged and arrows hissed. When he walked the hallways
of the palace, he saw memories of the dead. Images of Nolhonarin, his
elder brother and king. Images of his first wife, Kalkanah, whose name
had meant ‘The Almighty’s Gift of Peace.’ Worst were the memories of
Sheneres. Dalenar’s heir would have been almost thirty years old, had the
lad still lived.
Peace was a lie. For Dalenar, there would always be a war. If not a war he lived, then one he remembered. And, if he began to think he might learn
to avoid both, a messenger would visit his palace.
This time, there were two.
“My . . . lord?” The voice was so sweet, so uncertain. “The messengers
wait for you to answer them. They are unhappy.”
Dalenar turned his head toward Kinae, and the girl immediately lowered
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her eyes, blushing. He could see her self-consciousness. She tried so hard to please him. He knew of her efforts, and he forced himself to be civil.
Yet she was clever, and could sense his dissatisfaction—even if she couldn’t understand that there was nothing she could ever do to remove it. No power in Roshar, not even the Almighty’s hand itself, could force Dalenar to ever be this girl’s husband in anything other than name.
“Tell them to wait,” Dalenar ordered, turning away again.
Kinae retreated, leaving Dalenar to his unrest. He turned his eyes to
the south. Over the ridge of the lait, he could see the Mount of Ancestors rising in the distance. On its eastern slope crouched Ral Eram, the First
Capital—the city founded by the Heralds themselves. During the two
months following the end of the Pralir war, Elhokar had moved his armies
through the Oathgate and organized them in the foothil s below Ral Eram,
ostensibly to see to their dismantlement. However, it took nearly as long
to disband an army—collecting its gear, paying its wages, and organizing
its registration—as it took to gather one, especially considering the travel time from Prallah. Now that he had decided to attack Jezenrosh, Elhokar
would need barely a few days to reorient and reorganize his men. He could
probably march on Crossguard with at least half his original numbers.
Jezenrosh would never be able to match such a force. Still, he did hold
the defensive advantage. Unlike the Prallans, the Aleth nobleman was wel -
equipped, and had a good number of both Awakeners and Shardbearers.
Even with superior numbers, Elhokar would not find Crossguard an easy
stone to break.
Dalenar shook his head. There was more to the coming war than tactics.
There were two boys, young to Dalenar despite their titles. Elhokar,
Jezenrosh, and Sheneres had played together as children. Even then,
Elhokar had known that he would one day be king, and Jezenrosh had
chafed at the arrogance he saw. Sheneres had always been the peacemaker.
Dalenar could not take his son’s place. There would be no peace now,
not with assassins dead in Ral Eram. And so the separate messengers came
running. Who would Dalenar, the grand Tyrantbane himself, support?
Dalenar turned from the balcony, walking past the oak stormshutters and
through his chambers. The messengers stood respectfully as he entered the
audience hall. It was a small room, without grand columns or ostentation.
Dalenar waved the men to sit, then took his own seat before them. Aredor
and Renarin waited in the back, along with several of Dalenar’s tribute
lords and the young Shardbearer, Merin.
Dalenar rested an elbow on the chair’s armrest, rubbing his chin as he
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regarded the messengers. Both wore Aleth blue, their cloaks emblazoned
with a stylized khol glyph—Elhokar’s sunburst for the man on the left, Jezenrosh’s stormwinds for the man on the right. Neither messenger had
been pleased to discover the other’s presence.
This is wrong, Dalenar thought. So very wrong.
“Well?” Elhokar’s messenger finally asked. “What is your decision, Lord
Dalenar. Will you stand with your king, or will you join the traitor?”
“My lord is no traitor!” Jezenrosh’s messenger snapped.
“His men tried to kill the king,” Elhokar’s messenger said.
“After Elhokar shamed them publicly before the entire court!” the
second man said, standing. “What those men did for their own honor has
nothing to do with Lord Jezenrosh!”
“Enough!” Dalenar said, bringing silence to the room. The messengers
turned toward him expectantly. Dalenar sighed. “I cannot choose between
the sons of my brothers, and I will not take part in their squabbling. My
house, and those of my tribute lords, will remain neutral. Any Shardbearer or lord beneath my rule who chooses to join either side will be stripped of rank and Blade. Let them find another lord to follow if they think so
flippantly of my commands.”
“This is a dangerous move, Parshen,” Elhokar’s messenger informed, his expression darkening.
“Begone,” Dalenar said, rising. “Both of you.”
Jezenrosh’s messenger bowed stiffly, then turned and left. Elhokar’s
messenger trailed behind. “Know that the Kholinar Oathgate will be sealed
w
ith the others,” he said. “The king’s orders, should you refuse to aid him.
He cannot have a man he does not trust at his back.”
Dalenar turned from the messenger, not watching as the man left. A few
seconds later, footsteps approached from behind.
“Is this wise, father?” Aredor’s voice asked quietly.
“I will not choose between them,” Dalenar replied.
Aredor stepped to the side, moving so that he could see into Dalenar’s
eyes. The boy’s arm was still in a sling, his face pale from exertion. After the last week’s ordeal, Aredor had spent much time in bed, recovering from blood-loss and injury.
“This war is not just, father,” the boy said.
“Jezenrosh’s men tried to kill the king,” Dalenar replied. “Regardless of
whether they acted on his orders, he is responsible for the sins of his men.”
“That is the same argument Elhokar used to take Renarin’s Blade,”
Aredor said. “I didn’t believe it then either.”
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“And if Jezenrosh did give them orders?” Dalenar asked.
Aredor paused. Then he looked back, his jaw determined. “Something
smells wrong here, father. Something about the assassin’s attack, the letter Lady Jasnah gave me . . . I spent these last few months in communication
with Jezenrosh, father. I don’t think he would have done this.”
Dalenar regarded the boy. “Communication? What kind of communi-
cation?”
Aredor glanced away. “It’s unimportant now.”
Dalenar sighed. Aredor’s instincts were good—something did, indeed,
smell wrong. A king should not take up arms against his kinsmen, and an
uncle should not be forced to watch his nephews kill one another.
“We will remain neutral, Aredor,” Dalenar said firmly. “Those are your
orders.”
Dalenar could sense the displeasure in his son’s posture. Aredor was
young; inaction felt worse to the boy than treason. Aredor turned without
responding, stalking from the room. The other occupants dribbled away
after him, all except Kinae, who waited by the back wall, ever-dutiful with her diminutive talla and wide eyes.
Almighty forgive me for abandoning the one who dies, Dalenar thought.
chapter 35
SHINRI 6
They chose for Shinri a very pretty cell. In fact, confronted by the
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 43
