certain he would have been angered had she not been there, with her ladies, kneeling on silken pads beside the palace entrance. He waved for his white charger and was moving to climb into the saddle when an approaching
figure caught his attention.
Shinri glanced up. A messenger in false Aleth blue scrambled up the
palace ramp, then made his way to Ahven’s side and voiced a message. Ahven nodded once, waving for his entourage to halt their preparations. A few
moments revealed the reason. A squad of horsemen, looking harried and
fatigued in the afternoon light, clopped up the ramp. Shinri immediately
recognized the man at their front.
Ahven’s Shin assassin didn’t have the same worn look as the rest of his
group. The man rode with lithe dignity, slipping off his beast before it even came to a halt. He was to Ahven’s side like a pre-storm breeze, washing
across the stones and bowing before his master. Shinri perked up. She was
too far away to hear their exchange, but she had a good line of sight to
Ahven’s face.
Whatever the Shin man’s message, it did not please the king. Shinri
breathed in relief. Perhaps the man hadn’t been sent after Jasnah—but if
he had, his mission had not found success. The Shin man stood, waving
back toward his squad of men. The soldiers moved aside, revealing what
Shinri had assumed to be pack horses. Settled atop them were two bodies.
Several of the party’s soldiers untied the bodies, and as one of them
struggled lethargically, Shinri realized they were still alive. Captives, then, not corpses.
One of the prisoners managed to stand on weak legs, and Shinri caught a
shocking glimpse of the face. Even from a distance she recognized Renarin
Kholin’s muted features. The other one, tossed groggily to Ahven’s feet,
proved to be the young peasant Shardbearer, Merin Kholin.
Probably not a Shardbearer any more . . . Shinri thought rueful y, looking at the poor boy’s condition. Her pity was immediately stamped out by another
emotion—an irrational, yet still potent, anger.
This was the man who had killed Tethren.
It was foolish, and she realized that. Merin Kholin wasn’t really respon-
sible for Tethren’s death—Ahven had somehow ordered her fiancé to his
doom, and Merin had acted justly to try and protect his king. Yet, looking down at Merin, Shinri was ashamed to feel a kind of twisted satisfaction
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at his fate. The boy didn’t deserve her loathing, but he also didn’t deserve to bear Tethren’s Shardblade.
Ahven didn’t lose his frown at the presented gifts, but he did seem placated slightly—as he should have been. If he intended to capture Alethkar, he
would have to face Dalenar Kholin at some point. The Tyrantbane’s son
and adopted ward would prove powerful bargaining gems, even against a
man as noble and unyielding as Lord Dalenar. Ahven waved for several of
the soldiers to bear Renarin and Merin into the palace while another man
brought forth a Shardblade and proffered it before his king. Tethren’s Blade.
Shinri felt a crawling chill as Ahven reached out and accepted the
Blade, then shot a look in her direction. With an obvious motion, he sum-
moned his own Blade, then removed the opal and placed it in Tethren’s
Blade. The weapon immediately shifted, the strange Awakened metal
melting and reforming like molten steel, until it was a copy of the king’s former Blade. Ahven presented his own now-discarded Blade to another
member of his honor guard, but Shinri wasn’t paying attention. The thought of Ahven’s hand on Tethren’s Blade . . .
Better Merin bear it than him, she thought with a sick feeling. There was no reason for Ahven to switch Blades—both would be identical when they
bore his bonded opal. No reason at all except to make one final display of his power over Shinri. He controlled her past, decided the fate of those she loved, and sought a grip on her very emotions.
Shinri glanced to the side. The soldiers were dragging Merin and Renarin
into the palace.
Into the palace. To be kept in one of the secure cells in the west-central wing.
Ahven knows that the palace is the most secure building in the city—the best place to keep a pair of important political prisoners.
It was also the place closest to Shinri. Swallowing her guttural dislike
of the boy who had taken Tethren’s life, Shinri forced herself to consider advantages and facts. Merin Kholin was rumored to be a brilliant
duelist—he had saved the king’s life twice—and while Renarin wasn’t the
finest warrior in Alethkar, he had been trained in the great monasteries
of Kholinar. And now these two men were being held just a few hallways
away from Shinri’s own rooms.
Ahven had just delivered her a means of escape.
chapter 51
JEK 8
Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, felt a slight and discom-
forting surge of satisfaction at his failed mission. For the first time, Jek had been unable to fulfill his master’s will. Not that he hadn’t tried to locate the Lady Jasnah. Jek’s sense of honor was absolute—he could not sabotage
his mission intentionally. He was required to use all of his facilities to serve his master’s will, for that was what Truth demanded.
This time, however, no amount of competence had been enough to bring
success. Perhaps the Lady Jasnah had avoided Jek’s scouts, or perhaps they had missed her by simple luck. More likely, she hadn’t gone northward at
all—Jek had done a fairly thorough search of the area, extending as far
toward Crossguard as he dared, and his scouts had discovered no trace
of her passing.
Regardless, the woman was safe from Jek’s blade. The satisfaction of
guiltless failure gave him a brief smile as he rode beside his master, their horses marching at the head of the Veden honor guard. Ahven looked
troubled, and he had a right to be. From all accounts, the Lady Jasnah was a masterful tactician. She would waste little time bringing news of Ral
Eram’s fall to her brother.
Ahven’s success was by no means guaranteed. Alethkar was wearied from
war, true, but it was also armed with the spoils that came from a successful
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invasion. In addition, Ahven’s army didn’t represent the entirety of Veden might—he only had command of those armies that Talshekh had been able
to raise. If King Elhokar were warned in time, there was a chance he could escape Ahven’s offensive, withdrawing to gather support and leaving the
Veden forces exposed in the center of a hostile kingdom.
Unfortunately, Jek had little practical knowledge of large-scale tactics.
His clan was—or, rather, had been—the Nalenthatath, a Clan of the
Knife. His training was not in battlefield warring. While he had the prac-
tical leadership training of any Shin lord—basic command skills focusing
on small-squad leadership—his true focus had been in the arts of stealthy
kil ing. The Nalenthatath won wars by executing the enemy commanders—
as honorable a method as any other, in the eyes of the Shin. It had always amused Jek that the easterners considered themselves too ‘honorable’ to
overtly use assassination as a practical method of warfare. Oddly, despite their sensibilities, the men who came into possession of Jek’s Bondstone
seemed to have few qualms about using him to further their plans.
&nbs
p; Jek kept to his thoughts as Ahven’s party left through Ral Eram’s
massive steel gates and began down the extended stone path leading
toward the mountain’s base. There was so much stone. Moving away from the cliffside as they were, Jek suddenly became aware of the oppressive
mountain looming above. The troop of men wound its way down the
ramp-like path, cliffs to either side, leaving the First Capital behind on its ledge-like plateau sheltered in a massive rock crevasse.
Was it any wonder that the easterners didn’t understand the sacredness
of stone? There was so much of it here in the east that even Jek often found himself treating it as a mundane substance. He could almost forgive their
heresies at times. Of course, at other times he felt overly-sensitive to the desecrated rock around him—as if he feared losing his sense of Truth, and
could only maintain a hold on it through exaggerated piousness.
Could there even be piousness to one such as he? There is no truth in this world, Ahven had claimed. The words had stayed with Jek all through his hunt for the Lady Jasnah. What good was Truth when it led Jek to commit
atrocities? What good was honor when it gave a terrible man like Ahven
such a marvelous tool in a Shin assassin?
Jek had considered similar questions beneath other eastern masters, but
never had a master pushed him as harshly as Ahven did. Blood dripped
from Jek’s fingers even when they were clean. He knew that this very guilt was the purpose behind his punishment, a fitting judgement for one such
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 469
as he. But, had the Holetental really understood the extent to which these easterners were willing to go?
Several hours of riding didn’t provide any answers. Jek spent them in
silence, the air growing increasingly hot as they descended the mountain.
Yet the heat was different here in the east. It was dryer, especially in the summer. Here in the east, the Searing was a dangerous time. Groundwater
was tainted and undrinkable, and rivers were low even within laits. Jek
glanced up at the sky, and the angry sun overhead, glad that he wasn’t a
peasant living in one of the many remote Rosharan villages.
Ahven didn’t seem to mind the heat. He rode quietly, his ease on
horseback just another item on the list of his educational irregularities.
The king must have learned to ride in the same place he learned to wield a Shardblade and to perform a masterful oration. The quiet Elinrah brothers
kept their distance from the Idiot King, probably to keep suspicions to a
minimum. Yet once Jek determined to watch for them, he easily began to
pick out signs of Ahven’s silent companions.
There were some soldiers who hung too close to the Idiot King. Some
minor couriers who were given too much leeway in the workings of the
court and army. Some supposed stormkeepers who held conferences with
Ahven that even Jek could not attend . . . Each of these revealed an Elinrah tattoo on his shoulder or forearm. The marks were easy to miss and even
easier to hide, but Jek was trained to see that which others overlooked.
Most people wouldn’t have made the connection—Elinrah were grow-
ing more common amongst even the upper class, especially in Vedenar,
and the tattoos were hardly irregular. However, after what Jek had seen
in the temple of Nale’Elin, he could not ignore the coincidence.
As for the other things he had seen . . . well, he was not yet convinced.
The children had acted like Onyxseers, true, but it was not so difficult a thing to mimic descriptions from records or stories. Besides, the alternative was almost too unsettling to consider. Ahven was an evil enough force
on his own. If he were backed by the Holekalletap—the powers called
‘Epellion’ in the east—then he would present a danger such as Roshar had
rarely known.
As nightfall loomed, Ahven’s caravan approached his aggregated armies.
The group was gathered in a secure valley, and was well-camouflaged for
a force so large. Even Jek’s keen eyes had trouble discerning its presence from a distance. Of course, no amount of hiding would keep their secret
if Lady Jasnah reached Crossguard. And she wasn’t the only danger—a
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passing merchant train, the eyes of a wandering peasant . . . any number
of passing coincidences could doom Ahven’s expedition.
“You were right,” Jek said. “You need to move quickly. The armies are
committed—any more hesitance could doom the invasion.”
Ahven looked up, eyeing Jek. The words were the first either had spoken
during the five hour ride. “Lord Davar still thinks we’re moving too hastily,”
the Idiot King noted. “He wanted to hold Ral Eram and gather strength,
forcing Elhokar to come to us.”
Jek shook his head. “The first rule of assassination is surprise,” he said.
He turned, meeting Ahven’s eyes. “And that is exactly what you are doing—
trying to assassinate an entire army.”
Ahven cocked his head, then smiled deeply at the analogy. “Well put,”
he said, kicking his horse forward.
Jek followed, guiding his horse down a short incline toward the army’s
sheltered hiding place. There were some fifty thousand men in the
force—a considerable number, though they were forced to travel without
archer towers. Ahven kept a tenset of Awakeners to provide food and
water for the men, and there were an impressive sixty Shardbearers in the
troop. From the latest reports, King Elhokar would be hard pressed to
provide three fourths their numbers, even if the battle for Crossguard had gone well.
Ahven’s pavilion lay in the nobleman’s quarter of the camp, and he rode
toward it with a reaffirmed regal air, daring show no fatigue despite the
extended ride. Soldiers paused in their chores as the king passed, their eyes showing excited realization. Ahven’s arrival marked the end of waiting;
the king wouldn’t have left the safety of Ral Eram unless he intended to
attack. The captains wouldn’t give the order to disassemble the camp until the following morning, but only the dull-minded or unobservant would
be caught surprised.
They reached the royal pavilion, and Jek climbed off his horse, annoyed
at the slight soreness he still felt after his extended ride searching for Lady Jasnah. No Shin man should suffer from going horseback; his people raised
and trained most of the beasts ridden here in the east. Yet, forced to serve another’s will as he was, Jek often didn’t have time for daily riding exercises.
He either spent his days in continuous riding to fulfill some assassination order, or he spent them cramped within one blasphemous stone room or
another. There was no moderation.
Jek stretched, then followed Ahven and the king’s bodyguards into the
royal tent.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 471
Someone was waiting for them.
Jek reached the intruder first, of course. He snapped across the pavilion’s rug, drawing his yahnakatakat before the guards even realized the room
was occupied. Jek positioned himself between the intruder and Ahven,
reflexively moving to protect the man who was his enslaver, and had his
long-bladed knife at the intruder’s neck within three heartbeats.
The old man did not flinch. He sat pleasantly in Ahven’s chair, as if
unconcerned about the blade pressed against his skin.
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Ahven regarded the intruder with curious eyes that showed only a shade
of worry. He pushed back the tent flap, waving for one of the door guards
to enter. “Did you let this man in?” he asked the soldier.
The guard paled. “My lord, no! We let no one pass!”
Ahven nodded, waving the soldier away. The king turned back toward the
intruder, his expression growing even more intrigued.
The intruder said nothing. Jek held his knife still, his muscles tense.
There was something strange about the intruder, something subtly
unnatural about the way the man had remained motionless as Jek struck.
In appearance, the intruder was mostly unremarkable. He was irregularly
straight-backed for his age, and his silver hair was full and well-groomed.
His wrinkled skin was aged, but his body wasn’t decrepit. He looked
more . . . stately than he did elderly.
“I fell like I should recognize you, old man,” Ahven noted carefully.
“We have never met, Ahven Vedenel,” the intruder said, the movements
of his jaw pressing his neck against Jek’s blade and drawing blood. “Though I have watched you for some time. Taking Alethkar is a bold move—one I
had always hoped you would attempt.”
Ahven stood thoughtfully for a moment, studying the intruder, before
finally adopting a confused expression. “You’re the old Aleth king’s stormkeeper,” he said. “The one called Balenmar.”
The intruder, Balenmar, nodded slightly—though Jek’s knife kept the
motion to a minimum.
“Where is the Lady Jasnah?” Ahven asked, taking a step forward.
“I hear that she escaped into the caves beneath the city,” Balenmar said.
“She always was a clever child.”
“You did not go with her?” Ahven asked.
“No.”
“Then how did you escape my soldiers?”
The intruder simply smiled. “You are an interesting man, Ahven Vedenel,”
he said. “Whether you are clever or foolhardy, I have yet to determine.
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Either way, I have decided that I can be of use to you. So, I have come to offer my services as an advisor.”
Ahven snorted. “You expect me to trust a man who so easily betrays his
homeland in favor of its invader?”
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 65
