Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

by The Way of Kings Prime (ALTERNATIVE VERSION) (pdf)

  to let me pass.”

  “I doubt she’ll do that,” Shinri said immediately. “But if you wish to visit her, we might be able to arrange an escort to bring you to her audience

  chamber. Stop making a disturbance—you said it wasn’t very effective

  anyway—and I’ll send a messenger to you once I get specifics from Lady

  Jasnah.”

  The madman smiled. “She’s trained you well,” he noted. “You’re very

  young to understand how to make a promise without giving anything up.”

  Jasnah would have been disappointed to see Shinri blush so openly.

  “You have an accent,” the madman noted. “Not from Alethkar, I assume?”

  “I come from Jah Keved,” she said.

  “The same as the king’s wife,” the madman said. “A relative of yours?”

  “No,” Shinri said. “We’re of different houses, but we came here as part

  of the same treaty.”

  The madman nodded. “You’re what . . . fifteen?”

  “Seventeen,” Shinri snapped.

  “Forgive me. It’s been a very, very long time. What do you think of your mistress? I’ve heard much said of her, but nothing from one that actually

  knows her.”

  “She is a brilliant politician and a skillful teacher,” Shinri said simply,

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  withdrawing slightly. She had already answered far too many of his ques-

  tions.

  “Ah, and now you look more like her,” he said cryptically. “She is a

  strange woman, this Lady Jasnah. Everyone agrees on that fact. As you’ve

  noted, my understanding of people’s ages has been thrown off a bit by the

  millennia; however, isn’t it thought odd that she remains unmarried at her age?”

  Unmarried. The word brought back unconscious thoughts of Tethren.

  She dismissed them immediately, but not quickly enough, for she found

  the madman regarding her with discerning eyes.

  “What?” he asked. “You have someone of your own, young Veden ward

  of the Lady Jasnah? Someone who brings you pain?”

  “It is unimportant,” Shinri said coldly.

  “I see,” the madman responded. “He left you? Or is it something worse?”

  “Why should I discuss such things with you?” she said.

  “You probably shouldn’t,” he admitted. “Madmen are terrible at keeping

  secrets.” He winked at her, drinking the rest of his water with a deep swig.

  Shinri paused. “You’re not what I expected,” she finally admitted.

  The madman smiled. “You know, people tend to tell me that a lot—no

  matter what Epoch it happens to be. But discussing my history would

  have little point, since you will probably take it all to be the ramblings of a madman. What of you? Who is Shinri of the House Davar?”

  Instantly suspicious, Shinri studied his honest eyes, trying to delve his

  intent. “Shinri Davar is a woman of little consequence,” she said. “A simple messenger.”

  “The ward to the king’s sister can hardly be a person of little consequence,”

  the madman replied. “And a simple messenger would not be granted the

  protection of two Shardbearers.”

  You may be insane, madman, Shinri thought, but you’re still clever.

  Suddenly the conversation’s direction made sense. He had said that his

  only connection to the court was Lady Jasnah, but he was trying to expand

  his options.

  “All right,” she admitted. “I’m of more consequence than some. However,

  important connections or not, I’m far too irrelevant to get your sword back for you.”

  Taln snorted. “Did your mistress teach you to be so suspicious, or does

  it just come naturally to modern Rosharan women?”

  “Deny that your entire point in speaking to me is to get your sword

  back,” Shinri said.

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  The madman shrugged affably. “One can never have too many friends in

  any noble court, Lady Shinri Davar,” he said. “Even mildly irrelevant ones.”

  Shinri stared him a challenge. His eyes, however, were just so honest—

  and strangely innocent. That proves your insanity, madman. No man who claims to be thousands of years old could possibly seem so innocent.

  “I promise not to ask you to get my sword for me,” the madman offered.

  “I’m still curious about you, however. There is so much I do not know, Lady Shinri. What treaty is it that brought you to be Lady Jasnah’s ward? Why do people speak of your mistress with such awe and such derision at the same

  time? Who is this woman you serve, and why does her soul seem so tired?”

  Why, it’s not me at all, Shinri realized, and almost laughed to herself in startlement. It’s Jasnah you are interested in. Were demigods allowed to get that look in their eyes when they spoke of a woman? Shinri suspected not.

  She covered her smile—he probably didn’t even realize it himself. But,

  self-aware or not, she could only bid him one bit of mental advice. Good luck, madman. Men of sounder mind than you have been crushed by that particular stone.

  “It is not my place to speak of my mistress, citizen,” she said. “Etiquette forbids.”

  “Then what of the treaty you mentioned?” he prodded.

  “It was designed by Lady Jasnah,” Shinri explained. “Three years ago,

  just after the old king’s death. In order to stabilize her brother’s throne, she negotiated a treaty with Jah Keved—the kingdom directly to the south.”

  “Formerly Vedenar,” the madman said. “During the last Epoch, there

  was a . . . friendly rivalry between Vedenar and Alethkar.”

  “Hmm,” Shinri noted. “What a pleasantly descriptive understatement.

  Anyway, Lady Jasnah’s treaty standardized the southern border, gave

  favored trading status to Jah Keved, and brought Lady Nanavah Veden

  north to be the king’s wife. She’s sister to King Ahven of Jah Keved, you

  know. I was delivered to Alethkar. In one move, two of the Great Houses

  were tied to the Aleth royal line.”

  “And the third?” the madman asked.

  “Rienar?” Shinri asked. “It was secured by arranging a marriage treaty

  between myself and . . .” She paused, realizing what she was saying. Between myself and a prince of the Reinar line. Tethren Reinar.

  The madman must have noted the sadness in her eyes. “You don’t approve

  of the union?” he guessed.

  Give him nothing, Lady Jasnah’s training whispered in her mind. “Of

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  course I approved,” Shinri said calmly. “Tethren Rienar was an honorable

  and kindly man, and a very powerful man.”

  “Was?” the madman asked.

  Shinri gritted her teeth in annoyance at the mistake. It wasn’t like you could keep it from him, she told herself. Tethren’s death is now commonly announced.

  The madman could ask anyone with half an eye for politics and get the truth.

  “Prince Tethren’s ship sank in a highstorm on its way to Thalenah several

  weeks before,” she explained in her political voice.

  The madman cocked his head. “Does that happen often?” he asked.

  “Don’t you have charts to predict the coming of the storms?”

  “We have stormkeepers,” Shinri said. “They keep track of such things.”

  “Then wouldn’t the ship have gotten to shelter before the storm hit?” he

  asked. “During previous Epochs men were wise enough to seek port when

  a strong highstorm was near.”

  Y
ou think I haven’t considered that? she thought. But . . . she hadn’t. It was something Jasnah would have been suspicious of immediately, but Shinri

  hadn’t given the oddity a second thought. It was definitely strange for a

  common mercantile convoy to let itself be trapped out during a highstorm.

  Usually, summer sailing was arranged so that one could be in port when the more furious highstorms hit. Only a trip to Thalenah or Shinavar would

  require leaving the coast, and both destinations could easily be reached

  between storms. For a ship to risk an open-ocean storm, rather than waiting a few days for an open window . . . its leader would have to be foolish.

  Or in a very great hurry.

  “I’m sorry,” the madman said. “The topic must bring you pain. It’s just

  that there is so much to learn—this time even more than the others,

  since the Epoch Kingdoms have fallen. What are these stormkeepers you

  mention? Mystics?”

  “Hardly,” Shinri said with a snort, glad to leave the topic of Tethren’s

  death. “They are scientists, trained in Thalenah at the New House.”

  “The New House?”

  “The House of Truths, in Prallah, was . . . lost during the Oathshard

  wars,” Shinri explained. “The stormkeepers, however, trace their lines back to scholars who were serving in royal courts when their homeland was

  razed. They formed the New House to replace their old institution, moving

  it to Thalenah—which was the most stable kingdom during the Oathshard

  days. You should ask Lady Jasnah if you want to know more—she studied

  in Thalenah when she was younger.”

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  Of course, she added, so did I. I just didn’t bring much back from the experience . . . except maybe the enmity of a couple tensets of stormkeepers.

  “I see,” the madman said. He stood, bowing slightly to her. “I’ll take your offer then, Lady Shinri. I promise to stop preaching here, and you will get me in to see your mistress. I really need to speak with the Lady Jasnah

  again; she struck me as an impressive woman when we spoke.”

  Shinri smiled. Impressive? she thought. What a pleasantly descriptive understatement.

  chapter 17

  MERIN 4

  Merin stood perched on the side of the stone wall, looking down.

  Kholinar’s walls were lofty and thick. Their sides smoothed by the

  drippings of winter storms, the wall’s blocks seemed to have melded

  together—almost as if the structure were formed of a single, massive stone.

  The rock was dark, the color of crom buildup and winter lichens—similar

  to the buildings of Merin’s home village. Unlike many of Kholinar’s build-

  ings, the walls could not be scrubbed clean or whitewashed. However,

  the unrefined look felt right—it made the walls seem more like a natural

  force than a man-made barrier.

  Merin took a breath, then jumped off the side.

  He had chosen a lower section of the wall—one of the shorter side

  bastions that ran parallel to the main structure. Even still, it was a daunting distance to the ground, thirty or more feet. Merin plummeted like a boulder.

  He tried to keep his eyes open as he fell, watching the ground approach.

  His feet slammed against it, the weight of his Shardplate throwing up

  chips of broken stone. He stumbled slightly, falling back against the wall and steadying himself.

  He took a couple of deep breaths. Even after several tenset repetitions,

  jumping off the wall still unnerved him. Experience had proven that the

  fall would not hurt—though the impact shook a little, it was manageable.

  Still, there was something unsettling about falling from such a height.

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  Merin sighed, heaving himself away from the wall’s support to begin

  jogging back up the wall’s steps. Only sixty more to go . . .

  When he reached the top again, he was surprised to see Aredor waiting

  for him. Dalenar’s heir wore his customary well-tailored outfit, and stood leisurely with his back resting against the battlement. “My older brother

  once visited Shinavar,” he noted. “He said that there were animals there that could fly—strange, colorful creatures, some as large as a pig. I do not think, however, that they gained the ability through sheer force of repetition.”

  Merin snorted, walking over to his jump-point, looking over the edge.

  A cool breeze was blowing, though the day was hot. Summer had almost

  reached The Searing, the forty-day stretch at its center when rain was

  scarce. The Searing was broken by only a single highstorm at its center—The Almighty’s Bellow, the most furious storm of the year.

  Merin turned back to Aredor, removing his helmet and wiping his brow.

  “Vasher told me to jump off the wall a hundred times,” he explained.

  Aredor raised an amused eyebrow. “Ordering you to eat in your armor

  for a week wasn’t enough for him, eh?”

  “Apparently not,” Merin replied, shivering slightly at the memory of

  wearing his Shardplate to evening meals at Dalenar’s palace. Visiting lords had given him some very odd looks, but had received no end of mirth from

  the experience once Aredor filled them in.

  “A hundred times, eh?” Aredor said. “What number are you on?”

  “Forty-one,” Merin said.

  Aredor grimaced. “You’ve been at it for several hours already!”

  “It takes time to get up those steps,” Merin said.

  Aredor just shook his head. Merin could see the amusement in his eyes,

  however.

  “I know,” Merin grumbled. “I should have chosen one of the masters

  you picked for me.”

  “Oh, I would never gloat over a friend’s misfortune,” Aredor said.

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’m certain Brother Vasher knows what he’s doing,” Aredor said. “Why,

  if you keep at it, he might actually let you fight with a sword.”

  Merin snorted, and threw himself off the top of the wall again. The

  uncoordinated jump, however, flung him off-balance, and he dropped on

  his side, crashing to the ground in an unceremonious clang.

  With the hard landing, it happened again—just like the first time he had

  put on the armor, and several times after. The air around Merin changed,

  becoming viscous to his sight, patterns forming and flowing. The air was

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  still transparent, yet keenly discernible to him—like the waves of heat

  rising above flames.

  Merin sat, stunned for a moment. The Shardplate had cushioned his fall,

  leaving him a little dazed—but that was not why he remained motionless.

  He still had no explanation for why the armor changed his sight—Aredor

  seemed befuddled, and Renarin said he’d rarely worn Shardplate. However,

  every time it happened, it lasted briefly. Any motion disturbed the experience, ending the surreal moment.

  He did not want it to end. There was something . . . transfixing about the motions in the air. The patterns were not random—they moved with the air.

  In fact, it was almost as if he could see the wind itself, flowing around

  him, pushed by people who passed, falling in currents beside the wall’s

  shadow, only to rise again when it reached sunlight. The air seemed to

  whisper to him, drawing him to it, embracing him . . .

  Almost reflexively, he reached upward with a gauntleted hand. The

  experience ended as
suddenly as it had come, plunging him back into

  normality. He lay, dazed, on the stones below the wall. Above, he could

  barely make out Aredor’s concerned face, looking down at him.

  Merin sighed, heaving himself to his feet to show that he was unharmed.

  Several minutes later, he puffed his way to the top of the wall again. The armor might increase his strength, but it was still difficult to make the climb over and over again.

  “That was quite a jump,” Aredor noted.

  “Are you here for a reason?” Merin asked. “Or did you just come to

  mock me?”

  “Oh, mocking, mostly,” Aredor said with a yawn. “You know, you look

  like you could use a break. Why don’t you leave the rest of your . . . training for tomorrow?”

  Merin glanced over the side of the wall. He had a dueling session with

  Vasher in another hour or so. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to arrive fatigued from the jumping—the monk’s training was hard enough as it was.

  “All right,” Merin said. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

  “They said they were too busy with the harvest,” Merin said as he,

  Aredor, and Renarin made their way toward Shieldhome for evening

  sparring. “Or, at least, that’s what their letter said. The scribe says she copied down their words exactly, though.”

  Aredor frowned. “Why wouldn’t your parents want to come to Kholinar?

  With a Shardbearer’s stipend you could surely give them a better life here.”

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  Merin shook his head. “It’s . . . difficult to explain.” His parents’ words, while disappointing, had not been surprising. “My parents are . . . happy as farmers, Aredor. Stonemount is a tiny village. Its people have no concept

  of the difference between tributing lords, ranking lords, landed nobility, and unlanded nobility. They’ve heard of Shardbearers, but none of them

  really know what that means. To them, what I’ve become is . . . something

  strange, something that shouldn’t affect one of their children. They do

  know that they have to get the harvest in, however, before the Searing

  arrives.”

  “Still seems strange,” Aredor said. “You’re their son. Don’t they want to

  see you?”

  Merin had visited once. Once their training as spearmen was completed,

  they had been allowed two months to visit their families before going off to Prallah. Even then, Merin’s visit had been awkward. None of his brothers