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  “The Oathgate,” Merin said with wonder. “What does it feel like? Traveling through one?”

  “You’ve never done it before?” Aredor asked with surprise.

  Merin shook his head. “I’ve never even seen the capital. I come from a Tenth City?”

  Aredor smirked. “Right. Don’t worry—there’s nothing frightening about the Oathgates.”

  “That’s what you said about horses,” Merin noted.

  “The Oathgates are even more harmless than horses,” Aredor promised. “They’re really nothing more than doorways—you can barely tell that there’s anything unusual about them, except the fact that they open up on the other side of Roshar.”

  Merin nodded as their horses began to move again. He wasn’t convinced, but if the other option was riding a horse for several weeks back around the sea of Chomar and down the second peninsula to Ral Eram, he was willing to give the Oathgate a try. Besides, he couldn’t suppress his curiosity. He would finally have an image to place with the gateways he had heard of in stories and ballads. The Oathgates were said to have been given to man by the Heralds themselves. The ten portals connected the ten capitals of the legendary Epoch Kingdoms back to Ral Eram, the First City, a grand neutral city open to all. The Epoch Kingdoms were long since fallen, and Alethkar controlled Ral Eram now, but it would still be exciting to travel through the gate.

  They rode into camp, Aredor nodding friendly acknowledgments to many of those they passed. Dalenar’s heir was greeted well by all, even those who knew him only by reputation. Merin smiled at the warmth of the reception. Somehow, Aredor managed to remain friendly with even those who should have been his political enemies.

  Renarin followed behind them, looking distracted as he rode. Merin eyed him for a moment, then turned to Aredor. “Are we going to report to your father right now?”

  Aredor shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  “Are we going to report . . . everything? Even the things your brother thinks?”

  Aredor glanced at Merin, then followed his look back toward Renarin. Finally, he turned forward again. “I know my brother seems odd, Merin, but he’s really not. He’s just . . . not comfortable with those he doesn’t know. Once you get to know him, you’ll realize he’s not strange at all, just a bit of a daydreamer.”

  Aredor paused. “Besides,” he continued. “Live with him for a decade or two, and you’ll find that he has an uncanny ability to . . . well, know things. I’ve rarely known him to be wrong. He notices things, Merin. Things regular people just don’t see.”

  Merin frowned, reaching reflexively for his glyphward, then again cursing his decision not to wear it. The three of them dismounted at the perimeter of the noble tents, and then made their way toward Dalenar’s pavilion. Outside, Merin saw several unfamiliar guards. One, a shorter man, bald and lithe, with a short beard, eyed them with a careful look as they entered the tent.

  Inside, Lord Dalenar sat in discussion with a woman Merin had seen only at a distance. Lady Jasnah Kholin was striking with her immaculate hair, fine features, and poised attitude. She sat in one of Dalenar’s chairs, wearing a green noblewoman’s dress, well-illuminated by the room’s four lanterns. Behind her stood a young woman with red hair and a roundish face.

  “No, he didn’t tell me either,” Dalenar was saying. He waved Merin and his sons forward, not pausing in his dialogue. “But whatever it is, Elhokar believed it. Part of me is eager to see Balenmar in favor at court again—the man served Nolhonarin right up to the day of his death, even taking a wound in defense of his king despite his age.”

  “I don’t like secrets, Uncle,” Lady Jasnah said. “Even if they are kept by allies.” She paused, eyeing Merin with a critical look.

  “The boy is trustworthy, Jasnah,” Dalenar said. “He’s a ward in my house, now.”

  Jasnah didn’t seem as convinced as Dalenar, and Merin glanced down, feeling self-conscious before her eyes.

  “Regardless,” Dalenar said. “We can’t keep our suspicions secret from them—we did, after all, send them to spy for us.”

  “I should hardly call it spying, Father,” Aredor said lightly, stepping forward and pouring himself something to drink from the winetable at the side of the tent. “After all, the dead can hardly offer complaint.”

  “What did you discover?” Jasnah asked, her tone cool and businesslike.

  “Very little,” Aredor said. Renarin stayed near the front of the tent, and Merin—uncertain of his place, did likewise. “There was definitely a third army,” Aredor continued.

  “You have proof?” Lady Jasnah asked.

  “Not a bit,” Aredor said, sighing and taking a seat beside his father. “But the third army is the only reasonable explanation. The way the soldiers were standing when they died . . . the strange manner of the wounds . . . it all points toward a third force.”

  Lord Dalenar frowned deeply. “The idea of a vanishing army that can destroy twenty thousand troops makes me very uncomfortable, Jasnah.”

  “Agreed,” Lady Jasnah said in her calm, almost emotionless voice. “However, I’m having enough trouble keeping my brother from riding off to try and conquer the rest of the world—it won’t be easy to persuade him to listen to our worries.”

  “I don’t know that I care whether or not he listens,” Dalenar replied. “I’m just worried that this attack will lead to something else. Another strike of some sort.”

  Jasnah nodded and the tent fell silent, the only sound that of Aredor sipping his wine. Eventually, Jasnah spoke. “We have another problem as well, Uncle. Balenmar’s words regarding Queen Nanavah appear to be true—I’ve been interviewing the messengers who have visited Ral Eram recently. I may have a battle on my hands when I return.”

  Dalenar shook his head. “Now is not the time for the queen to begin growing into her station. I thought perhaps, once the war was over, things would get easier.”

  “They never do,” Jasnah said. “No good can come from leaving the court to itself for several years.”

  “I wish Elhokar would . . .” Dalenar tapered off, sighing. “I don’t know, Jasnah. I don’t have the patience to deal with your brother any more. It takes all of my effort to remain civil when I talk to the boy.”

  Lady Jasnah sat for a moment, looking thoughtful. Her eyes were composed, her demeanor withdrawn. Looking into that face, Merin could believe the stories he’d often heard told about her. She seemed to lack anything in the way of emotion—save, perhaps, for displeasure.

  “Shall we divide our efforts, then, Uncle?” Lady Jasnah asked. “I will see to my brother and the queen, and will try and find out just what Balenmar said to gain himself the king’s good graces again. See what you can discover about our vanishing army, and send word to me if you discover anything.”

  “Very well,” Dalenar said.

  “Good evening, then. I have preparations to make for the morrow’s return.”

  Lady Jasnah rose, and Dalenar stood courteously as she turned to go. She paused briefly beside Renarin as she reached the tent’s exit. “Renarin,” she said, “how are you managing?” The words were sincere, even if her tone remained neutral—perhaps there was more warmth beneath that face than was first apparent.

  Renarin smiled. “I’m fine, my lady. Please, don’t worry about me.”

  “I will get you another Shardblade,” she said.

  “Don’t,” Renarin said. “I never really needed one anyway.”

  Lady Jasnah paused, then nodded to him and swept from the room, her female attendant following behind.

  Lord Dalenar waved the boys forward, seating himself and nodding for them to do likewise. “Now,” he said. “Tell me exactly what you saw and thought when you searched the battlefield.”

  chapter 6

  Jasnah 2

  Jasnah had seen the Prallan Oathgate before, but always from the other side. Both were identical, of course—a large archway of black onyx with a rim of cut obsidian. The archway’s opening, like those of the
other Oathgates, was filled with a light veil of smoke. She could make out vague shapes on the other side, patterns of light and dark, forms with edges blurred by the mist. The smoke hung unnaturally, like a draped sheet, stirring and rippling occasionally as if it were a laketop touched by wind.

  There were ten sets of Oathgates in all—during the Epoch Kingdom days, the ten gates had provided the kings with constant access to Ral Eram. Each of the ten Epoch capitals held a domed building like the one in which Jasnah now stood, and all ten linked back to a central chamber in the palace of Ral Eram. They were a marvel, and gave a powerful strategic edge to the one who controlled Ral Eram.

  But to Jasnah, they also meant something else—especially this one. Even standing where she was, a short distance away from the gate, she could hear the obsidian in her mind, calling to her. It was like a sound, a pure note, alive and vibrant. She couldn’t hear other gemstones unless she touched them, but obsidian . . . it whispered from even a distance.

  She blocked it out, forcing herself to ignore its longing summons, focusing on the room around her instead.

  Back in the First Palace, the Prallan Oathgate had always looked out of place with its foreboding Cimmerian cast. Yet, here in a room dedicated to it, the gate seemed fitting. The Prallan Oathgate Vault was circular, rimmed with glyphs representing all Ten Essences and Ten Forces. The Prallans had always been fond of obsidian, the Polestone of knowledge and mystery, and their palace was crafted of dark iron, marble, and stained woods. With its intricate glyphs, expensive stones, and ancient architecture, the room was a vision of a time long lost.

  The room’s majesty had long since fallen to the wear and tear of time. Pralir, the newest kingdom to take root in the ancient land of Prallah, had stood for only thirty years before Elhokar’s invasion. The kingdom’s poverty and struggles were reflected in the unkempt feel of the Vault room. Wood scarred and battered, stone scratched and chipped, iron rusting. The hints of beauty were there, but they were only shadows—as if the entire country were covered with a thin veil of Oathgate smoke.

  Jasnah could only hope Elhokar’s rule would bring the battered land some measure of relief.

  “Lady Jasnah?” Kemnar, second in command of her personal guard, asked from behind. “What are you waiting for?” Short with a completely bald head and a thin dark beard, Kemnar was more soldier than he was nobleman—he was a twentieth lord, four times removed, and he received no hereditary stipend from his home city.

  “Nothing, Kemnar,” she said, not bothering to explain. She had long awaited this day, awaited it since her father’s death, and Elhokar’s subsequent declaration of war.

  She stepped through the smoke, and was home.

  Wisps of smoke trailed her body, as if trying to pull her back with incorporeal fingers. She stepped into a white marble room—the Central Oathgate Vault of Ral Eram.

  Sun shone through numerous windows, and bright white columns ringed the ovoid room, one between each pair of windows. The Ten Oathgates stood around her, each one distinct in craft and material, each leading to a capital city that had once been home to a powerful kingdom, many centuries before. The smoke held to her for a moment before settling back toward the Prallan gate, only to be disturbed again as Kemnar stepped through. He would be followed by many others during the days to come; an army returning to its homeland.

  The Central Vault was busy this day, bustling with Elhokar’s aides and returning noblemen. It was also clogged with the regular guards—a redundant safety measure, since it was impossible to pass through an Oathgate unless both sides were open. Still, during times of war, one could never be too careful.

  The king had passed through a few moments before, and Jasnah moved forward in search of him. The Oathgates lay in an hourglass formation following the pattern of the Double Eye, and they were far enough apart from one another that she could see a crowd gathered at one end of the room.

  The smoke broke again, and Shinri stepped through. The girl’s face was composed, but Jasnah knew her far too well not to notice the excitement in her posture as she glanced toward the other side of the room, and the open Veden Oathgate. She’s seventeen, and she has a fiancé waiting in Vedenar, Jasnah chided herself. Let the girl go.

  “You may visit,” Jasnah said to Shinri. “Be back for the feasts this evening.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Shinri said, and darted off toward the Veden Oathgate—a massive structure of smooth glass and diamonds.

  She found Elhokar at the front of the room. He smiled as he held up a small child, one Jasnah wished didn’t look so unfamiliar. Ahrden Kholin, the king’s son and Jasnah’s only nephew, was barely into his second year. The boy looked confused at the sudden fuss and frightened at the strange man before him—he had been born while Elhokar had been at war, and there had been little opportunity to visit during the last two years. It would take time for him to get used to the father he had rarely seen.

  Elhokar didn’t seem to share Jasnah’s concern. His face showed only joy as he held the young child, a crowd of deferential nobility standing around him with quiet stances. For a moment, Jasnah was able to feel her habitual worry soothed away as she looked at her brother’s face.

  Practicality reasserted itself as she noticed a discrepancy in the crowd. “Kemnar,” she said, “find out what happened to Lord Dalenar.”

  The short warrior nodded curtly, stepping away from her. Behind, other important lords were making their appearance through the Oathgate—most were Landed nobility or Shardbearers who had participated in the war. Jasnah, however, was only concerned with locating a specific stern form. During the week since that final battle, Dalenar had remained cold toward Elhokar despite Jasnah’s numerous attempts at soothing the wound.

  Dalenar still acted as required of him, of course—the highstorms would stop blowing before her uncle ignored his duty. Yet, she could see a hesitance that had not been there before. A hesitance that could lead to distrust. Elhokar couldn’t afford to lose Dalenar; their uncle was the most respected man in all of Alethkar. He was vital both politically and martially, especially since Jezenrosh—Elhokar’s other Parshen—had withdrawn to his palace, complaining of sickness.

  It wasn’t good for both Parshen to be absent for Elhokar’s return. The king’s Parshen were supposed to be his two most loyal supporters, and Elhokar had managed to alienate them both.

  “Parshen Dalenar and his sons returned to Kholinar soon after passing through the Oathgates,” Kemnar informed in a quiet voice, returning to her side. “They spoke to no one.”

  Jasnah ground her teeth, shooting a frustrated look at the Aleth Oathgate—an archway with a stiff triangular top, crafted completely of jade and studded with sapphires. It led to Kholinar, the former capital of Alethkar, the estate where her father had lived before he conquered the First City. Now Dalenar ruled there, and he had apparently decided to return instead of remaining for the victory celebrations.

  “Jasnah, come and greet your nephew,” Elhokar said, turning with a smile, Ahrden squirming in his grasp.

  Jasnah put on a calm feminine face, stepping forward with a smooth gait—she would have to deal with Dalenar at another time. For the moment, she had other worries—in the form of a red-haired woman at the king’s side. More plump than Shinri, Queen Nanavah Vedelen betrayed the same distinctly Veden features: round features and reddish hair, though Nanavah’s was far more blonde than Shinri’s. Nanavah was also more sturdily built than Shinri, a Veden trait that had apparently bypassed Jasnah’s young ward.

  Nanavah was not only Elhokar’s wife, but sister to the king of Vedenar, the kingdom directly to the south. Though the Idiot King Ahven was generally regarded with little seriousness, Nanavah’s line made her a very important woman.

  “Lady Jasnah,” Nanavah said with a comely smile as Jasnah approached.

  Jasnah nodded back, but inside she frowned. The last time she had seen Nanavah—nearly a year before—the young queen had still been visibly furious with Jasnah. E
ither Nanavah had overcome her hatred, or she had learned to mask it. Jasnah seriously doubted the former was possible.

  “Where is Dalenar?” Elhokar said, pausing as he handed his son back to an attendant.

  “He returned to Kholinar,” Jasnah replied.

  Elhokar’s expression darkened.

  “My lord,” Jasnah said before he could respond, “Lord Dalenar has a family and a city to care for as well. I am certain he will return in time for the feast. Let him go to greet his betrothed.”

  It was a thin excuse, considering Dalenar’s opinion of being betrothed to a woman so young, but Elhokar seemed to accept it. As soon as he turned back to his crowd, Jasnah motioned Kemnar to the side.

  “You want me to make certain the Parshen does as you said,” Kemnar assumed.

  Jasnah nodded. “Impress upon my uncle the . . . importance of his solidarity. Make certain you mention the word ‘duty.’”

  Kemnar nodded, heading for the Kholinar Oathgate. Jasnah masked her worries again, and turned a composed face toward the crowd of nobility.

  “Come,” Elhokar said, his voice firm—as if the result of built-up determination. “Let us visit my mother.”

  Nothing made Jasnah feel her age more than looking down at her mother, and knowing the woman was dying. True, Jasnah was still in her fourth decade, but her mother was only in her sixth. Lady Ezavah Sheledar looked far older than her fifty-six years. Airy, almost skeletal, in form, the woman seemed to be aging with every heartbeat. When Jasnah had last visited, the former queen had seemed near-death. Yet, somehow, Ezavah had grown worse since then. It seemed impossible that the wan figure in the bed was even alive.

  “She has not awoken, I assume?” Elhokar asked, his voice solemn as he knelt beside the bed. Jasnah stood at his side, Nanavah behind her husband. The room’s only other two occupants were a single nobleman guard and the stormkeeper who acted as Ezavah’s healer.