Dalenar made a few more commands, then stepped back a few paces, waving Kinae forward so that they could speak in private.
“Is this about your father, Kinae?” Dalenar asked quietly.
“No, my lord,” she said, glancing nervously back at the attendants and monks. “It’s about your son.”
“Aredor?” Dalenar asked with surprise.
“No, my lord. Renarin. I . . . I think he’s going to sneak off to the war too.”
“What!” Dalenar asked incredulously.
Kinae shied back at the outburst, looking down and flushing.
Dalenar controlled himself. Don’t overreact, he thought. This is Renarin she is speaking of. The boy wouldn’t do such a thing—his winds-cursed unassertiveness might be annoying, but it usually keeps him out of trouble.
“Kinae,” he said calmly. “What made you think such a thing?”
“I heard him talking, my lord,” she replied in a small voice. “With Lord Merin. They were in the lord Renarin’s room. I was passing in the hallway, so I listened to them. Lord Merin said ‘We have to go after him.’ Lord Renarin said ‘We can’t. My father will be angry.’ Then Lord Merin said ‘We have no choice! We can’t let your brother die alone!’”
Dalenar stewed, grinding his teeth. They couldn’t possibly . . . But they could. Merin still didn’t know the ways of nobility, and Dalenar knew that he and Aredor had become good friends. Renarin had always idolized his older brother. If Merin put it into his head that they should go . . .
“I’ll check on it,” Dalenar said stiffly. “You did well by bringing this to me, Kinae.”
The girl looked up, smiling at the encouragement as Dalenar waved her back to her litter.
He sent no messenger. As the Kholinar palace shuffled and spun with servants preparing for a distinguished visitor, Dalenar himself went to check on Renarin. The boy was not in his rooms. When Dalenar found Merin absent as well, he began to worry. He didn’t admit the truth, however, until he visited the stables and found that Renarin had requisitioned two of Dalenar’s swifter horses not an hour before. Apparently, Renarin had told the stablehands that Dalenar wanted him to ride out and meet Lord Echathen and escort him to the palace.
Dalenar forced himself to remain quiet about the disappearance. Even when Lord Echathen’s party arrived with no Renarin as an escort, Dalenar hoped that perhaps the boys would see their foolishness and return on their own. If they did so, he would be spared punishing them. Surely Renarin would realize the stupidity of joining the war effort. He was no fighter.
But Merin was. Dalenar had known so many young men like him—most noble, but boys were the same regardless of parentage. Merin was eager to prove himself. Twice he had saved the king’s life—both times by fighting when no one expected him to. He would assume himself immune to reprimand—would think that this time, like before, he would somehow find a way to do what everyone assumed he could not.
Dalenar kept his anger in check even as he stepped forward to greet Kinae’s father. Third Lord Echathen was a man who could have been a king, both in bearing and in lineage. His city, Khardinar, had been mostly independent of Alethkar since the turn of the century. Made wealthy by grand sapphire mines and trade through its calm bays set at the very end of the Kholinar Lait, the city had been close to declaring itself a separate kingdom until Nolhonarin’s firm defense against the invader Jarnah. Dalenar still remembered a young Echathen, riding with his father to join against the invasion, defending a common border despite internal disputes. When Echathen himself had inherited a short time later, Nolhonarin had been quick to gain the young lord’s loyalty, folding Khardinar back into Alethkar without sword or spear.
Echathen bowed deeply before Dalenar. “Greetings, my Parshen,” he said. He had changed little since those days. He had lost most of his hair—and now shaved off the rest—and time had added some creases to the face, but he was still the stark and eager warrior who had ridden at Dalenar’s side during the Jarnah war.
Dalenar forced a smile to his face. “You needn’t prostrate yourself so, old friend. Come, I’ve ordered a feast to refresh you from your journey.”
Echathen stood, smiling, then turned to regard Dalenar’s fourteen Shardbearers—all in Plate—who stood at the head of a quarter tensquad of soldiers, all saluting. Dalenar had avoided anything too dramatic—no thrown flower petals, no trumpeters or heralds. Just the soldiers, greeting one of their own. This, however, still proved too much ceremony for the aging Echathen.
“I see I gave you too much warning again,” Echathen said with a wry grumble. “I’ll have to try and find slower horses for my messengers.”
Dalenar chuckled despite himself, turning and letting Echathen greet Kinae. Again, the man bowed. Through betrothal, his own daughter’s rank had been elevated beyond his own. She held herself well, all things considered.
“We have prepared rooms for yourself and your men, my lord,” she said. “Please make use of them. We shall begin the feast whenever you feel prepared.”
A slight discomfort flashed in Echathen’s eyes. “Thank you . . . my lady,” he said. He turned, waving his group—mostly nobility, from the looks of them—to follow Dalenar’s attendants to their rooms.
Dalenar fled to his balcony again. He stared out over the darkening lait, listening to the lingering sounds of feasting below. He had retired at a distinguished time, leaving the younger men to their revelries—though he doubted many of them would enjoy themselves as they would at another lord’s palace. Dalenar’s thoughts on drinking and gluttony were well-known.
Below, a group of dark-cloaked men galloped from the stables, torches held high in the night as they rode on their lord’s business. Dalenar could no longer wait for Merin and Renarin to return. Rumors were already spreading—the stablehands had spoken of the missing horses and the lordlings who had not returned in Echathen’s party. By dawn most of Kholinar would know that Dalenar’s second and final son had betrayed him as well. This time, at least, Dalenar could deny the rumors—Renarin had told no one of his leaving, and had given no explanation. Assuming Dalenar’s men caught them before they arrived at the war, there might be something he could do for the boys.
The lait cliffs were strange dark mountains in the waning light. Dalenar sighed, suddenly feeling so very old.
A sound came from behind. Dalenar turned to find lord Echathen, tall and broad-chested, standing at the doorway to his balcony. Dalenar waved him forward.
Echathen stepped up to the stone railing, resting arms on its top, a glass of wine held loosely in one hand. “You look northeast,” he noted. “Toward Crossguard.”
“I look northeast,” Dalenar agreed, “and consider the idiocy of youth.”
Echathen smiled. “We were idiots too, once.”
“I sometimes wonder if we still aren’t,” Dalenar said quietly.
Echathen snorted. “You’ll notice the men I brought with me,” he said.
Dalenar nodded—he had noticed. No ladies, only lords. Very strange for a supposed social visit. They were Echathen’s most powerful tribute lords and neighbors. All of them, like a surprisingly large percentage of the Aleth nobility, had declared themselves neutral in Elhokar’s bickering with Jezenrosh. Dalenar’s refusal to take sides had made them bold.
“Many men think Elhokar acts presumptuously,” Echathen said simply.
“Those are treasonous words, old friend,” Dalenar said.
“It seems our country breeds treasonous words lately,” Echathen replied. “Some wonder when the fighting will stop. They wonder if we were justified in invading Prallah. They wonder if their king has become the same kind of tyrant we fought so hard to defeat two decades ago.”
“Pralir harbored the Traitor,” Dalenar said simply.
“And so we invaded,” Echathen replied. “Without diplomacy, without asking for a trial of our king’s murderer. We attacked within months of his flight.”
Dalenar frowned. “If there are those who say such t
hings,” he noted, “one wonders why they didn’t join with Jezenrosh.”
“Because Jezenrosh is no better,” Echathen said, sipping his wine. “The king is wrong to attack his countryman, but he was right to be wary. Surely you’ve heard of the way Jezenrosh courted the nobility in Elhokar’s absence. Besides, Jezenrosh is no leader. Even those who follow him don’t give him much respect. The boy’s too eccentric, and he has little skill in battle command. Men like him just fine, but they don’t want him as their king.”
“I don’t see where this is going,” Dalenar said wearily.
“Don’t you?” Echathen asked. “Dalenar, there are many who whisper that a new leader is needed—and that leader is not Jezenrosh. They need a king they trust. A king respected like no man in Alethkar.”
Dalenar leaned against the stone rail, feeling a cool wind call through the lait, ruffling his clothing. “Echathen, I am his Parshen. I will not betray my king.”
Echathen didn’t answer immediately. “No,” he finally said. “I guess I didn’t really think you would. Just know this. When Elhokar came to us three years ago—paranoid that Khardinar would rebel at the old king’s death—and offered us his silly treaty, we did not accept it for him. He suggested Kinae for one of his fops, it was I who insisted it be you. I know you’ve never liked the betrothal, Dalenar, but it was necessary.” He paused, then lay a hand on Dalenar’s shoulder. “Khardinar is loyal to the Tyrantbane. If he rides to arms, then so shall we. There are others who would follow as well.”
With that, Echathen left him, and Dalenar bowed his head before the wind, hoping that the Almighty was in its whispers—for he could certainly use some direction.
chapter 43
Jek 7
Minrel struggled to keep her hand steady as she poured the tea. She kept her eyes lowered, but couldn’t help glancing up at the man seated at the low table before her. He was so strong of jaw, so determined and aristocratic. How could this man have ever been called the ‘Idiot King?’ It was difficult for Minrel to comprehend.
Granted, she had never seen the man up close before this day. She had heard the stories, though. She knew of his transformation—the man before her was less a mortal and more a holy being. Like a Herald. The finger of the Almighty had touched him, taking away his mind sickness and giving the Three Houses a strong leader in their day of need. He was the Idiot King no longer; already people were whispering of a new title.
The Awakened King.
There was only one other man in the room, and he sat across the low table from the Awakened King. Minrel moved over, busying her nervous hands to make the shaking less obvious. This man was himself a symbol of King Ahven’s calling. Everyone knew that the Shin almost never fought beneath the command of a Kanaran leader. The arrogant foreigners considered all people of the east to be beneath them—it took a very special individual to earn their loyalty, a man like Jarnah the Conqueror. Or like Ahven Vedenel.
The Shin man watched her with his unnerving eyes. He lifted his cup, his motions fluid and purposeful—even the way he held his cup seemed graceful. Her hand suddenly slipped as she poured, jerking slightly and disrupting the stream of tea, but the Shin man somehow anticipated the motion and smoothly moved his cup in tandem with her slip. The flow of tea continued uninterrupted, not a drop spilled.
The cup full, Minrel gratefully raised her pouring vase. The Shin man caught her eye, and Minrel paused. Instead of the cold arrogance she had expected to find therein, the man’s eyes were . . . understanding. Even comforting, in their own way.
Standing, Minrel backed away to leave the room.
“Stay,” King Ahven commanded.
Minrel froze, then walked back to the table and knelt beside it, her chest level with its top as she waited upon her king’s call.
“So what do you think of our new accommodations, assassin?” the king asked his companion. “The First Capital is a fine prize—and not just for the Oathgates. There is a fairness and beauty to the buildings that one will not find in any city of Veden design.”
The Shin man did not reply, but sipped his tea quietly. The king’s words were correct—Ral Eram was a wondrous city. With their graceful columns and cromless angles, its buildings were far more beautiful than those in any Veden City.
“Speak,” King Ahven commanded. “I can see the answer in your eyes anyway. Deafness teaches a man to read more than lips, assassin.”
Deafness? The comment made no sense, but these were important men. There was little doubt they would speak of things far above the understanding of a simple Eighth Citizen serving girl barely past the age of her Charan.
“If this city is a place of beauty,” the Shin man said, his accent making even his words sound graceful, “then I have trouble seeing it through the blood that drips from its stones.”
Minrel couldn’t suppress a shiver. She had heard the stories, of course. The stories of . . . the city’s capture and the slaughter that had occurred. Her father had explained the necessity very sternly—just like in the stories and ballads, sacrifices had to be made. Enemies were not just those who held spears, but any who might resist in their hearts. This was why the king had commanded Veden servants be gathered and brought through the Oathgate to serve in Ral Eram’s palace, and this was why he had ordered the deaths of their Aleth counterparts. And his will was that of the Almighty. Did the Awakened King not have power over the Oathgates? Did he not command the loyalty of men who should have rightly tried to kill him? Had he not been healed by the Almighty himself?
The king chuckled quietly at the Shin man’s comment. “Do not idealize those who died, assassin. How many people do you think old Nolhonarin killed when he captured this city in the name of Alethkar? It is only just that the same destruction should return against them.”
“You speak of justice?” The Shin man’s words were calm, but there was an insulting tone to them nonetheless. Minrel caught her breath, glancing up toward the Dwelling, but no retributive strike fell to destroy the man for his blasphemy against the Awakened King.
King Ahven just laughed again. “I am justice, assassin. Has not your blade proven that? After everything that has happened, still you doubt.”
“Ilhadal will not let you live,” the Shin man said in a simple, direct voice. “The moment his daughter produces an heir of your line, you will be killed. One Shin assassin will not be enough to protect you on that day, Idiot King.”
“Perhaps,” King Ahven replied, holding out his cup for Minrel to fill again.
“And,” the Shin man continued, “if he assumes that you are delaying the production of an heir, he will grow impatient.”
“He has his proof for the moment,” King Ahven replied.
“Ah yes,” the Shin man said. “Your stunt with the guards, executed within full sight of the wedding bed so that rumors of consummation would spread. One wonders how any man could be unresponsive to such treatment of his daughter.”
“One wonders,” King Ahven said, “how someone could be so ignorant of men’s temperaments. Ilhadal Davar is no Talshekh, doting on the whims of wife and children. Ilhadal favors ‘The Spell of Might’ and ‘The Unseen Ballad of Return’—he is a man of ambition, a man who likes his music to contain simple beats, performed loudly. To such a man, children are things to be dominated—and a failure of a daughter is a thing to be given only contempt. If I treat her likewise, I will be seen as a man of strength.”
“If that is the truth, then Ilhadal Davar is a fool,” the Shin man said.
“A fool he is,” King Ahven replied. “But not for the reasons you assume.”
Minrel sat very still, trying to look unnoticed. I shouldn’t be hearing these things, she thought uncomfortably.
“But enough banter,” the king said. “What of the group who escaped?”
“Your scouts are having trouble tracking their movement through the caverns,” the Shin man replied. “It could take weeks to find them.”
The king rubbed his chin, which sp
orted a growing beard—something he’d apparently begun to grow only after his Awakening. It was already becoming full, however, and was cut after Veden fashion, giving the face the desired squareish look.
“Do they have a map of the caverns? One that leads them to daylight?” the king mused. “Or was their flight to the caverns simply an act of desperation? My spies know nothing of this escape method, and they claimed to know a great deal about the palace.”
“Perhaps some of the palace servants could have told you more,” the Shin man said, his eyes hard.
King Ahven ignored the jibe. “We will have to move quicker,” he said. “Lady Jasnah Kholin is a woman who needs to be dead—if my soldiers had let half the palace escape and killed her as ordered, then I would not be nearly as worried. We cannot risk her alerting her brother.”
“You can’t hide a marching army,” the Shin man said. “What does it matter if she alerts them? We’ve taken the city quietly, but Elhokar’s scouts will warn him of your coming.”
“As long as he discovers my armies after he has weakened his forces by fighting his cousin, I will mind little. The joining of their forces is what worries me. And the Kholin woman . . . I have been warned to deal with her. You will take a small force of soldiers and ride around the base of the mountain, watching for refugees and openings in the rock. Make certain those caves don’t let out somewhere nearby, where she could quickly make for Crossguard. The woman supposedly took a large number of people with her—she shouldn’t be difficult to find.”
The Shin man nodded, rising to his feet. He didn’t bow as he walked toward the door.
“Wait,” King Ahven said. “You have forgotten something.”
The Shin man paused, turning back.
“The girl needs to be dealt with. We have discussed things that need not be passed onto the other servants.”
Minrel froze. The Shin man did likewise, his face flashing with the first vivid emotion he had displayed.
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