They turned their attention to Merin again, studying the new colors—a
deep charcoal draped with grey.
“Far too dreary,” Rahnel pronounced. “Lord Merin is somber enough
without covering him in greys.”
“Besides,” Irinah said, “black reminds people of Awakeners. No court-
conscious man should wear anything too similar to it.”
The tailor nodded, riffling through his cloths again as his assistants
pulled off the charcoal and grey. Somber? Merin thought.
“Have you heard the story of Lord Merin’s bravery on the battlefield,
ladies?” Aredor asked. “You know he saved the king’s life?”
Merin flushed at the comment, but the women only grew more excited.
“Oh, yes,” said one of the quieter women—Merin had forgotten her name,
though she had a thin frame and wide eyes. “We’ve heard of it.” She sighed wistfully.
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Merin’s flush deepened. Of course she’d heard of it—everyone had.
In fact, most of the people he met couldn’t stop talking about his heroic
rise to nobility. To them, his exploit was as something out of the ballads.
They didn’t know how hasty and uncoordinated it had been. Of course,
most of them seemed more fond of moaning over its dramatic power than
actually congratulating Merin on his success. It was as if there were two
Merins—one the romanticized lord, the other the awkward peasant-
made-nobleman.
“Did you really defeat a Shardbearer without even a dagger?” one of the
girls asked.
“Not exactly,” Merin said with a sigh, his voice muffled as the tailor
pulled a cloth over his head—this one had a hole in its center so it fell
evenly around his body. “I just pulled him off of his horse. Someone else
actually killed him.”
“Lord Merin is too modest,” Aredor informed. “The Prallan Shardbearer
had broken Protocol, and was about to strike the king down. Everyone else
scattered, and we were sure his majesty was doomed. Only one man was
brave enough to come to his king’s rescue.”
The women turned properly amazed expressions toward Merin, mouths
forming ‘o’s of wonder. The tailor stepped back, regarding Merin critically.
“No brown or tans, master tailor,” Irinah said, frowning. “Lord Merin has
only recently become a Shardbearer. Brown is too mundane a color—there
is no reason to give a reminder of what he once was, now, is there?”
The tailor nodded, moving to remove the cloth. Merin sighed to himself.
“Aredor,” he said as the tailor worked. “Isn’t there something more important I should be doing?”
“A man has to look good,” Aredor replied. “Half of being a lord is looking the part.”
“That’s the thing,” Merin said. “I’m still not sure what it means to be a
lord. What is it I’m supposed to do? Surely there’s more to it than dressing well.”
Aredor chuckled. “You’re always so concerned about what you should
be doing. People aren’t going to tell you what to do all the time any more.
Being a lord isn’t so much about what you’re supposed to do as it is about what you feel you need to do. Besides, having a Shardblade doesn’t mean
you can’t relax once in a while.”
Standing and being draped with cloth didn’t seem much like ‘relaxing’ to
Merin. However, he simply sighed and decided to bear it—Aredor probably
knew what he was doing. The tailor finished again and stepped back.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 109
“That’s perfect!” Lady Irinah proclaimed, a sentiment that the others
agreed with after a moment of discussion.
Merin looked down. The chosen color was a dark maroon, crossed with
a sash of deep navy. It was only one of four color combinations the women
had decided they liked. All of them were darker colors—maroon, dark
green, and several shades of blue.
“Yes,” Rahnel said with satisfaction. “Well done, master tailor.” The man
bowed at the compliment, motioning for his assistants to gather up the
cloths and repack them.
Merin looked questioningly toward Aredor, eyebrows raised hopefully.
Aredor nodded, waving him down off the raised platform. Just then, the
door opened, and Renarin stepped in, a customarily dazed expression on his face. Immediately, the room fell silent as the women stopped their chatting.
Renarin stood for a moment, looking across the room. His hair was
disheveled, as it often was, and he somehow managed to stand halfway in
shadow despite the room’s brightness. The women sat in silence, shooting
glances at each other. They tried to maintain their smiles, but even Merin could see that they were uncomfortable.
“I’m . . . sorry to interrupt,” Renarin said, turning to go.
“Nonsense, brother,” Aredor said, waving him forward. “We were fin-
ished here anyway, weren’t we, ladies?”
The women rose, smiling and offering belated welcomes to Renarin.
They bid Aredor farewell, each getting promises from him that he would
call upon them soon.
Renarin watched them go, then turned to Aredor as the door closed
behind them. “It didn’t take them long to start fighting for your affection,”
he noted.
“Ah, you’re too cynical, brother,” Aredor said, still watching the door,
shaking his head wistfully. “We’ve been gone too long. There haven’t been
any men here to give them attention. Poor things.”
“They could have come with us to Prallah,” Renarin replied. “The winds
know, we could have used a few more scribes.”
Aredor chuckled. “That lot would never have survived the stormlands.
This is their element—and now that we’re back, our dear Merin had better
watch out.”
Merin frowned as he joined the two brothers, picking up his Shardblade
as the tailor and his assistants left out the back door.
“What was that?” Merin asked. “Why do I have to watch out?”
“Unmarried Shardbearer?” Aredor asked. “Savior of the king? Newly
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adopted into house Kholin? You’re a prime catch, my friend. If you don’t
watch yourself, one of those ladies’ mothers will have you wedded before
you realize what happened.”
“And, knowing my brother,” Renarin added, “he’s doing everything he
can to help them out. You realize half the reason he held this little tailoring session was to introduce you to the local eligible women.”
“A little socializing never hurt a man,” Aredor said. “You should try it
some time, Renarin.”
Merin fastened on Dalenar’s cloak, testing the new length—Aredor had
ordered one of the tailor’s assistants to hem it, and they had returned it when they arrived. “I appreciate the help, Aredor,” Merin said. “But the truth is I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford much clothing this month. I planned to send the stipend your father gave me to my parents in Stonemount.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Aredor said with a wave of his hand. “If you need
more, I’ll loan it to you. Now, are you ready for today’s other activity?”
Merin frowned. “There’s more?” he asked, stretching his tired limbs.
“You’re the one who’s always asking what his dut
ies are,” Aredor
reminded him. “Well, it’s time to start them. If you’re going to compete
in Elhokar’s dueling competition, you’ll need to learn how to use that Blade and Plate of yours.”
“Dueling competition?” Merin asked, feeling a twinge of excitement. “Me?”
“Of course,” Aredor explained. “The king ordered all Shardbearers to
attend, and you’re a Shardbearer. Unless you want to be made a fool of,
you’ll want to learn how to duel a bit before you get thrown into a ring.”
Merin smiled. Finally, something that made sense. The ballads made one
thing clear: Shardbearers dueled. “Where do we start?”
Aredor nodded. “To your room,” he said. “We’ll start with the Plate,
then we’ll go find you a dueling instructor.”
“Father thinks it was a group known as the Rantah, ” Renarin explained.
“Rantah?” Aredor asked as he unpacked Merin’s Shardplate, arranging the various pieces on the floor.
“It means ‘Distant Mountain,’” Renarin said. “When he founded Pralir,
King Talhmeshas had to conquer a number of smaller nations—he had to
hold both the Prenan Lait and the western coast of Prallah if he wanted
to found a kingdom with any measure of stability. Rantah is an underground rebellion populated by the noble lines of those conquered kingdoms.
They’ve been a stone in Pralir’s shoe for the last two decades, burning
villages, attacking caravans, and destroying soldiered garrisons.”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 111
“An underground rebel group?” Aredor asked skeptically. “That doesn’t
sound like the kind of organization who could destroy an army of twenty
thousand. If they could do something like that, why stay underground? In
fact, if they had those kinds of numbers, I doubt they could have stayed underground.”
Renarin shrugged. “The old nobility of Pralir—the ones who have made
peace with Elhokar, hoping that he’ll let them retain a margin of power—
are convinced it was the Rantah. They say the group has been hiding in Distant Prall for a few years, gaining strength. If they attacked at the right time, as an ambush, it’s conceivable they could have destroyed the Traitor’s secret force. At least they had motive—if there was a group out there who
hated Talhmeshas Pralir more than Elhokar, it was the Rantah.”
Aredor shook his head, not convinced as he regarded the Shardplate.
Merin’s room was relatively small, but it was blessedly big compared to the simple floor mat and crowded troop tent he had used during his time in
the military. There was a bed, a table, and a stool—and while the floor was empty of rugs or mats, Aredor said Merin could purchase either whenever
he wished. Right now, the stones were covered with the array of metal
Shardplate sections. There were over a tenset pieces, and all had leather
straps, but strangely no buckles. Merin looked down, bewildered—he
didn’t even know where to begin.
“Shardplate is kind of a misnomer,” Aredor began, selecting a piece of
armor—the largest piece, a breastplate-shaped cuirass. “It doesn’t really
bond to a person the way Shardblades do. It probably got the name because
Shardbearers were the ones who tended to wear it.” He motioned for Merin
to hold his arms out, then fitted the breastplate across Merin’s chest.
The leather straps constricted quickly, and Merin cried out in surprise.
The piece of armor felt like something living, clamping onto his chest
like the jaws of an animal. It halted a moment later, however.
Merin wiggled slightly, amazed at how freely he could breathe. The
metal was heavy, but weighed far less than the metal breastplates he had
occasionally trained with as a spearman. In fact, despite being a single sheet of metal, it felt less constrictive than even his layered wooden spearman’s armor.
“Shardplate fits to its owner,” Aredor explained, reaching for the shoulder guards. “However, it doesn’t bond to you—if you take it off, it will fit to the next person just as quickly as it did you.” Aredor placed the shoulder guards, and they too immediately locked into place, their straps clamping
on and fitting to Merin’s body.
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“You can put the armor on by yourself, but it’s a bit awkward,” Aredor
explained, moving on to the left arm. “If you want to take it off, you can touch the clasp underneath each piece, and it will unlock. The armor will
stop pretty much any weapon, as long as it doesn’t manage to slide into a
chink between two pieces. Shardblades are the exception—Plate will only
stop a Shardblade on the first blow. If you get hit squarely in the same place twice, the Plate will probably give way.”
“Then what?” Merin asked as Aredor affixed pieces of Plate to both arms.
“Is my armor ruined?”
Aredor shook his head, picking up some pieces of armor that fit around
the bottom of the chestplate, protecting his sides and waist. “It will repair itself, molding back into its original shape. That takes time, though, so
you’ll want to avoid getting hit.”
Merin nodded as Aredor handed him the codpiece, then moved onto
helping him attach the leg pieces and metal boots. When he was done,
Merin was covered completely in steel except for his head and hands. It
was a strange feeling, like he had been dipped in a pool of molten metal.
Merin wobbled slightly. It was awkward—that was for certain. However,
not because of the weight. Strangely, he felt no more burdened than when
Aredor had affixed the first piece. Instead, it was just . . . different. There were tugs on his body in irregular places, and his balance felt slightly
irregular.
He raised an arm, and it swung up with ease. Carefully, he tested his
motion, squatting down and standing up again. Then he tried a small jump.
He cried out in surprise as he went higher than expected—almost as high
as he would have gone if he weren’t wearing several tenset brickweights of metal. Aredor steadied him as he teetered maladroitly.
“It takes some getting used to,” Dalenar’s heir said with a chuckle. “The
Shardplate was made by Awakeners, like your Blade. It compensates for
itself, making you stronger and quicker. If you know how to balance the
combination of awkwardness and enhancement, you can actually be more
fluid in the Plate than you would be normally. You’ll definitely be stronger.
The Plate also cushions you from blows—wearing this, you could probably
take a catapult boulder in the chest and come out alive.”
Aredor bent over, picking up the last three pieces of armor. “These are
the most important pieces of equipment,” he explained. “The gauntlets
and the helmet. Most people who attack you will go for your head—it’s
the most exposed part of the body. We don’t know why, but no suits of
Shardplate were made with faceplates. Some people try affixing regular
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 113
steel faceplates to them, but many prefer visibility instead. No Shardbearer following Protocol will swing for your face, though they may attack the
side of your head. Spearmen and other citizens, however, will always go for the face—that’s practically the only place they can hurt you.”
Merin nodded, accepting the helmet and placing it on his head. Like the
other pieces, it immediately sized to fit him, and rested
more snugly than his spearman’s cap ever had.
“The gauntlets are designed to give you flexibility,” Aredor explained,
holding out the left gauntlet for Merin to slide his hand into.
The gauntlet was crafted from what appeared to be a heavy leather
glove fitted with intricate plates of steel running along the back. However, flexing his hand, he realized he could feel through the leather as if it were extraordinarily thin. “It’s amazing,” Merin whispered.
Aredor smiled, holding out the other gauntlet, and Merin slid his hand
into it as well.
Immediately, the room pitched around him. Merin stumbled, disori-
ented, at the strange sensation. The air seemed . . . thick, somehow. Liquid.
It rippled and shifted, like—
It stopped. Merin shook his head uncertainly, lifting a gauntleted hand.
“Is that supposed to happen?” he asked.
“What?” Aredor asked with concern.
“I . . . I’m not sure,” Merin said. “The room suddenly felt different. I
can’t explain it.”
Aredor looked toward Renarin. The younger brother shrugged. “It’s
probably just the initial surge,” Aredor explained. “Every time I put the last piece of Plate on, I just feel a slight burst of strength as the Plate completes itself.”
“Maybe that was it. . . .” Merin said slowly. “Well,” Aredor said, standing.
“That’s your armor. Now that you know how to put it on, take it off. We’ve got to get to the monastery while there’s still some light left for training.”
Kholinar was beautiful. Merin couldn’t remember a day when it had
been the capitol of Alethkar, but it had an Oathgate, which meant it dated back to the days of the Epoch Kingdoms.
Before his ascension to nobility, Merin had never visited a lait. He
had known that there were valleys where rivers ran down the center. The
idea of a constantly-running river itself was amazing enough—back in
Stonemount, water had only flowed right after a highstorm. Rain had to be
collected carefully, so that there would be water to drink between storms.
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Merin had imagined the river to be like the waterways back home—
small and swift-running, flowing through cracks with the quick energy
of a storm. He had never imagined such a broad, rushing mass of water.
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 16