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  “Elhokar!” Dalenar snapped, stepping between the two. “This is my son!”

  Elhokar stood, weapon outstretched. Dalenar had only seen such a seething hatred in the young king’s eyes one other time—the day he had found his father’s body. Finally, he hissed in anger, but dismissed his blade.

  “He forfeits his Shardblade,” Elhokar snapped, standing upright. “He drops from Fifth to Thirteenth Lord, and he shall not inherit, even if Aredor should die.”

  “What?” Aredor asked incredulously, steeping up to his younger brother’s side. Aredor’s Blade was still out, Dalenar noticed—and, unlike his brother, Aredor was quite competent.

  “Elhokar,” Dalenar said quietly, stepping up to the king. “This is excessive. The boy only did what—”

  “The boy’s leadership made me an oathbreaker,” Elhokar said. “I swore to take the Traitor’s life myself—every man in the army knew that. The soldiers who disobeyed my order are dead, but the responsibility for their act lies with the one who commanded them.”

  Dalenar held his tongue, afraid that his response would be unbefitting of a nobleman. His hand, however, quivered as he gripped Oathbringer’s familiar hilt.

  “It’s not just the traitor’s death, Uncle. The boy nearly cost us this day’s battle. I will not have him in a position where he can take command again. Either he gives up the Blade now, or he duels me for the opportunity to keep it.”

  The wind finally started blowing again, a light breeze, sending a ripple across the tattered cloaks of the fallen men. The Voice of the Almighty, it was called. Dalenar felt it whisper to him—whisper temperance as he gritted his teeth, facing down the son of the brother he had loved so much. Finally, he turned away.

  “Do as he says, Renarin,” he said.

  “Father, no!” Aredor cried.

  Renarin, however, was his normal quiet self as he summoned his Blade. Ten heartbeats passed as a season, and the boy knelt, proffering the Blade. Nolhonarin had presented the weapon to Dalenar on the eve of the boy’s birth, as he had done the day Aredor was born. Renarin had carried it since the day of his Charan.

  Elhokar took the weapon, then pulled out a steel-handled dagger. He slammed the butt of the dagger against the pommel of Renarin’s Shardblade, knocking free the black opal that formed the pommelstone—the opal was the “Shard” of a Shardblade, the object that made it possible to bond weapon and man.

  The opal dropped to the stones, clicking softly. Then, Elhokar spun, marching from the battlefield. The collected Shardbearers and commanders, who had gathered around the scene, slowly trickled away, their faces uncomfortable.

  Renarin stared down at the opal. Aredor knelt by his brother, his face dark. He would have fought to keep his Blade—he was like his older brother, Sheneres. Determined, unyielding. Sheneres had died at the hands of the Traitor that same night, the night Nolhonarin had died. The boy had died in defense of his king, but there had been no time for Dalenar to seek his own vengeance. Only the king’s revenge mattered. Dalenar was Elhokar’s Parshen. His will was swallowed in that of his king. Such was his duty.

  Dalenar turned away from the boys, looking up toward the horizon. He could still see the darkness of the highstorm retreating in the distance.

  “Come, Renarin, Aredor,” he mumbled. “We must return to the camp.”

  chapter 2

  Jasnah 1

  “The traitor is dead, my lady.”

  Jasnah closed her eyes, exhaling softly and sitting back in her chair. It is over. Three years of war had come to an end. She sat for a moment, enjoying the peace of finality, before finally sitting upright and opening her eyes.

  The messenger still knelt before her. He had obviously come directly from the battlefield; the bottoms of his boots were slick with brownish crom—the muck that fell with highstorms—and his cloak was still wet from the rains. He wore no armor—just a leather vest and a simple pair of loose trousers tied with a string. Runners had to remain unencumbered and mobile.

  The tent pavilion’s main audience room was large and spacious, though the metal supports gave it a more cluttered look than Jasnah would have preferred. The ground was covered with a large reed-woven mat—which, Jasnah noticed with displeasure, was dappled with crom from the messenger’s boots. Now that the highstorm had passed, the flaps on the side of the tent had been pulled aside to let in the sunlight.

  Jasnah could smell the humid coolness lingering from the storm, but the tent itself was warm and dry. The highstorm had been unusually powerful for late spring, but the pavilion had held to its stakes. The structure was of Veden make—well-designed for extended campaigns, though Jasnah would be loath to test it against summer highstorms here on the Prallan highlands. Fortunately, it didn’t look like the war would come to that.

  “My brother?” Jasnah asked.

  “King Elhokar is unharmed, my lady,” the messenger replied.

  No thanks to his earlier stunt, Jasnah added, though she kept her face calm. No matter how many precautions she took, no matter how flawless her battle strategies, Elhokar always managed to get himself into some kind of trouble. Like most young Shardbearers, Elhokar thought himself immortal. He could no longer afford such brashness—he was king now.

  “Tell me of the battle,” she commanded. “It is over quickly. Did my brother finally find and duel the Traitor?”

  The messenger gave his report, and as he did so, Jasnah allowed a frown to creep onto her face. It was possible that five thousand could defeat such a larger force, but hardly likely. She wasn’t the only one surprised by the report—she sat in the command tent, along with a group of older generals who were too aged to take part in the actual battle. Several of these muttered to themselves at the oddity. As the messenger finished his report, one of the generals walked over to the logistics map—which was set on a low table in the center of the room—and began arguing over how the battle might have proceeded.

  The messenger waited patiently, still kneeling. Jasnah dismissed him with a wave of her hand, and he retreated from the large tent pavilion. The thick tent flap dripped a trickle of water as he brushed past it on his way out.

  Jasnah glanced to the side as the generals continued to argue. “Well?” she asked of her companion, the only other woman in the room.

  Shinri Davar, Jasnah’s ward, pursed her lips. Of medium build with a blazing head of red Veden hair, Shinri was only seventeen years old, yet she was already twice as clever as most of the women at court. Her braids were simple, for a noblewoman, and she held herself with the slight uncertainty of a girl who hadn’t yet realized just how beautiful she was.

  “It’s . . . wrong,” Shinri finally said, speaking with a smooth Veden accent. “Lord Renarin’s troop arrangement was careless—he sent his men into what appeared to be an obvious trap. Yet they won anyway.”

  Jasnah nodded.

  “What do you make of it, my lady?” Shinri asked.

  “I’m not certain,” Jasnah admitted, watching the generals. One had arranged some pieces representing troop squadrons on the map, and the others were generally coming to an agreement about how five thousand could have defeated such a large force. Their explanation, however, was contrived.

  Twenty on one side dead, five on the other. No survivors. Too many irregularities. I must speak with Dalenar about this when he returns.

  “It’s actually over,” Shinri whispered, as if stunned by the realization. She turned to Jasnah. “The war is over. This means we can return home, doesn’t it?”

  Is it over? Jasnah thought. I certainly hope so.

  Shinri was waiting for an answer. “My brother entered this war to get revenge for the death of our father,” Jasnah replied, keeping her concerns to herself. “That goal is now fulfilled.”

  Shinri frowned, eyeing her. She was a clever girl, and growing more and more competent as she learned to control herself and her emotions. She recognized a dodged question. The old Shinri—the impudent thirteen-year-old girl who had come to Jasna
h as a ward four years before—would have demanded an explanation. Now, however, Shinri only frowned to herself, studying Jasnah, before finally turning back to her embroidery. She was working on a new glyphward for the tent doors—superstition held they had to be replaced after every highstorm.

  Jasnah turned her own attention to the map-table. It had been constructed low, so that Jasnah could look over it while seated, as was proper for a lady of her stature. Of course, propriety had to be bent slightly to even let her into the tent—the command of troops was a Masculine Art, and Jasnah’s participation in the battle was irregular at best. Occasionally, the room’s generals would shoot presumably-covert glances her direction. Even after three years at war, they weren’t accustomed to having a woman in their midst.

  They kept any objections to themselves, however. Even the most stubborn of them could see that Jasnah’s battle-plans were superior. Her strategies had led the Aleth armies to unquestioned victory in Prallah. In addition, Jasnah never presumed to actually command troops—she simply outlined strategies. The implementation of those strategies, and the actual command of troops during the battle, lay with the tower-top commanders.

  Jasnah studied the map-table as a messenger arrived to relate the newest battle information. Elhokar had left the mop-up of the main Prallan force to one of his sub-commanders, and Jasnah was pleased to see that the man was doing a tolerable job. Most of the Prallan forces had surrendered—either they had heard the news of their king’s death, or they had simply realized the futility of further combat.

  This force had been the last major concentration of Prallan troops. Orinjah, the capital of Pralir, was now exposed to attack—and, with both the Traitor and the king dead, it was unlikely the city would offer any resistance. After that, it would be easy to travel back to Alethkar through the Oathgate. Assuming her brother intended to return to Alethkar.

  “You’re worried that the king won’t want to return home,” Shinri whispered, catching Jasnah’s eye. “You think he might become a conqueror, and continue on into Distant Prall.”

  Jasnah eyed the younger girl, but gave no confirmation to the words. Clever indeed, she thought. Perhaps too clever.

  “It is not wise to voice such idle speculations, Shinri,” Jasnah said. “Watch the battle.”

  Shinri smiled slightly, knowing Jasnah’s lack of denial was as good as a confirmation. However, she obediently did as commanded. There was really no reason for the girl to study tactics—her place as a noblewoman would require her to watch over her husband’s political needs, but she would never be called upon to plan battles. However, Jasnah found strong correlations between warfare and politics—both required a keen understanding of your enemies, and an even better knowledge of your own capabilities. Both required foresight and planning, and both demanded a certain amount of cunning.

  She heard hoofbeats from outside the tent, and looked up, expecting another messenger from her brother’s force. She was surprised, therefore, when a familiar form entered. The aged man was beardless, after Aleth fashion, though he still had a full head of elegant silver hair.

  “Balenmar?” Jasnah asked. “What are you doing here?”

  The Royal Stormkeeper smiled when he saw Jasnah. Balenmar had changed little since she’d last seen him, six months before, during her visit back to the Aleth capital of Ral Eram. Of course, Balenmar never seemed to change—he still looked much as he had during her youth, when he had served as Royal Stormkeeper and primary advisor to her father, King Nolhonarin.

  “Ah, young Lady Kholin,” Balenmar said, stepping into the tent and putting down the hood of his cloak. The garment was damp from highstorm rains—his news must be urgent indeed if he had come all the way from Alethkar, not stopping for storms, to bring it personally.

  Not that one would know such from his demeanor. He smiled as he spoke, as affable and nonplussed as ever. “I had hoped to find your brother here.”

  “He hasn’t returned from the battlefield yet,” Jasnah said.

  “Ah,” Balenmar said, walking slowly over to an open seat beside her. “May I sit?”

  “Of course, Balenmar,” Jasnah said, “you needn’t ask.”

  “Nonsense,” the aged man huffed, settling himself into the chair. “If the old people don’t hold to the traditions, then who’s going to?” He paused, looking up at her. “And don’t tell me I’m not old. I get very tired of that.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Balenmar snorted, resting one hand on his cane as he sat. He was getting old—feeble, even. She was surprised he had attempted such a long trip. But then, Balenmar had always been a stubborn one.

  “You say the king is still on the battlefield?” he asked. “Then I have missed the conflict. Tell me, Lady Kholin. Did anything . . . irregular happen on the battlefield today?”

  Jasnah eyed the old man carefully. Balenmar hadn’t been much of a player in recent Aleth politics, but he had always been clever. What do you know, old man?

  “What do you mean by ‘irregular?’” Jasnah asked carefully.

  “Was the king in any particular danger?” Balenmar asked.

  “This is war. He’s always in danger.”

  “Of course,” Balenmar said. “If you can think of nothing specific, then I shall have to wait to ask the king himself.”

  Jasnah frowned. The implication was obvious—he’d find out anyway, so she might as well be the one to tell him. “There was one oddity,” Jasnah said. “The king nearly fell to an enemy Shardbearer’s Blade.”

  Balenmar raised a bushy eyebrow. “A duel went against him?”

  “No,” Jasnah said. “There was no duel. A Shardbearer without glyph or other identification attacked my brother, breaking Protocol. He rode up through our ranks, unhorsing Elhokar and striking against him suddenly. Fortunately, my brother’s men protected him.”

  Balenmar’s eyes thinned. “A glyphless warrior, you say? No identification at all? No one recognized his face?”

  “When the soldiers finished with him, there wasn’t much of a face to see,” Jasnah said.

  Balenmar rubbed his chin, nodding to himself.

  “If you have information pertaining to my brother’s safety, Keeper Balenmar,” Jasnah said, “it would be wise to share it with me.”

  Balenmar chuckled. “No, Jasnah, I think not. I’m too late to stop the event itself, but my information is still precious. I shall be the one who shares it with the king—it wouldn’t do to have it reach his ears before I can get an audience with him. He’s been far too fond of his foppish merchant advisors lately; perhaps once he hears this, he will realize the value of keeping counsel with men of wit, not just men of wealth.”

  Jasnah frowned deeper, but Balenmar only shook his head. “You’re not going to get it out of me, child. You’ll know soon enough, I suspect. Besides, I have other news for you.”

  Jasnah suppressed a sigh. She was quickly approaching her thirty-fifth birthday, but Balenmar had yet to stop calling her ‘child.’ Ironically, she couldn’t think of any way to complain without sounding childish. So she simply let it pass.

  “And what news would that be?” she asked.

  “News about the queen,” Balenmar said quietly. To the side, Shinri edged closer with an almost imperceptible move, straining to eavesdrop on the conversation—just as Jasnah had taught her.

  “What about her?” Jasnah asked. “Has she done something foolish? Squandered the royal funds? Invited her Veden countrymen in for a riotous feast?”

  “Ah, but it is quite the opposite, child,” Balenmar explained. “I fear our dear Queen Nanavah has finally begun to develop a mind for politics.”

  “Impossible,” Jasnah said dismissively.

  “Undeniable,” Balenmar countered. “She’s taken over complete control of the Royal Ledgers, and has actually been administering them with skill. I wouldn’t have been able to leave Ral Eram in person to come here—despite the import of my news—if she hadn’t taken over most of my duties. I’m afr
aid I’ve become rather vestigial back at the palace—an amusing situation, I must add, when one realizes that I was only left behind as Steward of Ral Eram because the king found my counsel useless.”

  “You’re hardly useless, Balenmar.”

  “I didn’t say I was,” Balenmar said. “But the king sees me that way—and don’t you try and deny it. You may be a talented liar, Jasnah, but you can’t fool a man who already knows the truth. Elhokar considers me a symbol of the past, and that’s why he replaced me with that sycophant Meridas.”

  Jasnah didn’t bother arguing. She wished Balenmar’s words were exaggerations, but, unfortunately, Elhokar had not proven particularly wise in his choice of counselors.

  Before Jasnah could say anything further, a disturbance from outside the tent drew her attention. Through the tent flaps, she could see a group of men approaching, and they bore her brother’s flag—a vibrant blue khol glyph, the symbol of their house.

  “It appears he has returned,” Balenmar said.

  “I’m going to go speak with him,” Jasnah decided, rising. “Are you certain you don’t want me to deliver a message to him . . . ?”

  Balenmar chuckled. “No, child. I’ll wait until he decides to give me an audience. Knowing Elhokar, I may have to wait a few days, but I’d still rather speak to him myself.”

  Jasnah nodded, skirting the brown crom as she walked on sandaled feet toward the front of the tent. Her seasilk talla was a deep Aleth blue, embroidered with silver thread. The dress was form-fitting, and reached from neck to ankles, with buttons up the side. As was customary, the right cuff was tight around the wrist, and the other was open and enveloping, hiding the left hand from view. Her dark hair was carefully pinned up and braided in her headdress, but—as was her personal custom—she wore no gemstones. It was traditional clothing—this was a day to show patriotism.

  Despite the messenger’s assurances regarding her brother’s safety, Jasnah felt a tremble of relief at seeing Elhokar striding safely at the head of the line. His armor was scarred with a long gouge across the breast, and he wore no helm, but he looked unharmed. Her relief turned to concern, however, as he approached and she made out his expression.