Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

  had traveled farther than the next two vil ages over. They had been fascinated by the stories he told, but reserved toward him. He had been . . . foreign.

  Merin remembered the awed hesitance he had seen in the eyes of his three

  friends that morning when he awoke to find himself a Shardbearer. He had

  no desire to see the same in the eyes of his parents.

  “I’ll visit them once summer is over,” Merin said. “There’s no hurry—I’ve

  been away for three years now.”

  They entered the monastery, where Aredor and Renarin split to walk

  toward the noblemen’s side of the courtyard. Merin was still a little

  surprised that Renarin came to the monastery—he would have thought

  the duels would be too strong a reminder of the lost Shardblade. Renarin,

  however, didn’t seem to mind—he and his brother spent many of their

  evening spars practicing with each other, using regular swords.

  Something Merin still hadn’t been allowed to do. He sighed, setting

  his Shardblade against the far wall where he could keep an eye on it, then removing his slippers. He wore training clothing—a sencoat and loose

  trousers, much like the outfits the monks wore, though his was noticeably

  finer in make.

  Vasher stood with his monk companions, drinking from a water barrel.

  Several of the monks nodded to Merin as he joined them. During his

  time training with Vasher, Merin had begun to understand a little bit

  of the politics of the monastery. At first it seemed like the only strati-

  fication in the courtyard lay in the division between lords and citizens.

  However, there was a more subtle distinction—one among the monks

  themselves.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 165

  While most of the monks ate together, shared responsibilities of cleaning, and interacted with each other civilly, they always trained with the same

  group of men. The groups did not intermix on the sparring yard; they

  maintained strictly stratified cliques.

  Vasher’s group seemed to be near the bottom. All its men were about

  the same grizzled age. They were different from the calm-minded weapons

  masters that trained in other parts of the courtyard. Vasher’s companions

  spoke less, and seemed to hide more within their troubled eyes. Most of

  them bore scars or other hints of battle. They were Oathgiven monks—men

  who had joined the monastery of their own will, after becoming adults.

  Merin wondered what it was these men wanted to escape, and whether the

  monastery provided the shelter they sought.

  “How did the jumping go?” Vasher asked, lowering his ladle and wiping

  his mouth with a towel, then picking up his practice sword.

  “I got about halfway done,” Merin said.

  Vasher nodded, waving for Merin to follow him toward an open patch

  of sand. “Show me your stance,” he said once they arrived.

  Merin fell into the dueling stance as he had been trained, hands held

  forward as if gripping a sword’s hilt. Vasher walked around him, eyeing the stance with a critical eye. Eventually, he nodded. “Good,” he said, tossing Merin the practice sword.

  Merin smiled broadly, catching the wooden weapon. Finally! During the weeks of training, he had begun to desire the simple wooden blade

  with nearly the same zeal some men chased Shardblades. However, instead

  of power or title, the acceptance of this blade brought something else:

  validation.

  Vasher walked over to the pile, picking through the practice weapons,

  acting as if nothing important had transpired. “Back into your stance!” he snapped, shooting a glance at Merin.

  Merin did as ordered, falling into the stance, feeling the weight of the

  wooden sword in his hands. Regardless of its material, it was a fine weapon, well-weighted and sturdy, bearing the nicks and bruises of countless

  matches. It felt good.

  Vasher approached—bearing, Merin noticed with interest, a long, hook-

  ended pole-arm instead of a sword. Rather than falling into a stance when

  he arrived, Vasher simply reached out with the weapon, hooked the back

  of Merin’s leg, and flipped him off of his feet. Merin toppled to the sand with a surprised grunt.

  “Up!” Vasher said. “Quickly. Into the stance!”

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  BRAND ON SANDERS ON

  Merin scrambled up, sand trickling from his sencoat as he reassumed

  the stance.

  “Not quickly enough,” Vasher said. “Again.” He hooked Merin’s leg with

  a quick gesture, throwing him to the sand again.

  Merin did as commanded, this time making better time, jumping up

  and raising his sword as quickly as he could manage.

  “Far too slow,” Vasher informed him. “I want you to fall down and get

  up a hundred times.”

  Merin groaned, lowering the practice sword. “I thought that since I had

  a sword now, you’d actually let me spar,” he complained.

  Vasher snorted. “I just didn’t want you to get too accustomed to the

  stance with the wrong weight in your hands,” he said. “Now go.”

  Merin sighed, falling to the ground, then scrambling back up. Vasher

  stood back, nonchalantly leaning against the pole-arm and watching as

  Merin worked. Sweat-stained sand was plastered to Merin’s forehead by the

  time he finished. However, he could already see improvement. Now, instead

  of rising and then assuming the stance, he could nearly step right into it from the moment he began to rise.

  As he finished his hundredth rise, Vasher suddenly attacked, jumping

  forward with his hooked weapon. He swung the polearm like a staff,

  coming at Merin with both ends swinging in a flurry of attacks.

  Merin yelped, bringing up the practice sword to block what blows he

  could. Vasher’s fury pushed him back across the sand, forcing him to retreat.

  “Maintain the stance!” Vasher snapped between blows. “It will think

  for you. All of your strikes flow from the stance, all of your motions are fluid within it. In the stance, you are nolh, free as air, flowing into the next attack. If you break the stance, you become taln, and stone cannot change shape. Even a rock can be broken with enough force or persistence. The

  wind, however, can never be defeated.”

  Merin tried to do as commanded, tried to keep his feet positioned as

  he had been taught, tried to step in the motions he had repeated hundreds

  of times. Even with the confusion of Vasher’s attacks, however, he could

  immediately see the truth of the monk’s words. When he didn’t misstep,

  when he managed to keep his sword placed in one of the five defensive

  positions, his body seemed to move without thought. The parries and

  retreats he had been taught came naturally, and Vasher’s blinding strikes

  were somehow blocked. However, when Merin misstepped, stumbled, or

  lost his focus for just a moment, a tenset blows seemed to strike his skin.

  Vasher stopped eventually, and Merin tumbled backward, stumbling and

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 167

  dropping to the sand, the practice sword falling from nearly-numb fingers.

  He sat in the sand for a moment, gasping for breath.

  Vasher planted the staff ’s end in the sand and extended a hand, pulling

  Merin to his feet. “Go get something to drink,” he said.

  Merin nodded thankfully, jogging over to the water barrel and grabbing

  a l
adle. He drank thankfully, but sparingly. He probably didn’t need to be so frugal with water—not here, in Kholinar, with its river and its lushness.

  However, his instincts still told him it was summer—back in Stonemount,

  water would be scarce until the fall highstorms began to pick up.

  As he drank, Merin glanced across the courtyard, toward the sparring

  noblemen. Aredor and Renarin were there, as was Meridas and several of the other men Merin knew from the court. Apparently, many noblemen from Ral

  Eram came to Kholinar to train with Shieldhome’s respected master monks.

  “I can’t help wondering if I should join those noblemen, Vasher,” Merin

  noted as his teacher approached. “When I was a spearman, the captains

  always emphasized how important it was to know the men you were fighting

  with, so you could trust them. How can I be expected to defend Alethkar

  in war if I don’t have the camaraderie of the other lords?”

  Vasher shook his head. “When you were a spearman, your life depended

  on your neighbor’s ability to protect your flank. You’re a Shardbearer now; you can depend on no one. Even on a battlefield of a hundred thousand

  men, you will fight alone.”

  “Yes, but shouldn’t I at least spend a little time sparring with them?”

  Merin asked. “Seems like it would help me learn how to duel.”

  “I’m not teaching you how to duel,” Vasher said.

  “What?” Merin asked, turning with surprise.

  “I’m teaching you how to fight,” Vasher said.

  “And the difference is?”

  “One is contained in the other,” the aging monk said, turning to walk

  back across the sand. “Go and get your arrow.”

  Merin sighed, putting away the ladle and walking over to the weapon

  pile to do as commanded. When he joined Vasher, the monk had retrieved

  a dark-colored sheath from the wall inside one of the rooms along the

  wall. The monk slid a bright steel sword from the sheath, its sheen reflecting the setting sun.

  Vasher fell into his stance. “You wanted to spar?” he said. “Very well.”

  Merin stood hesitantly, looking down at his arrow, then back up at

  Vasher’s sword. Its edge did not look dulled. “You have a very strange

  teaching style, old man,” Merin informed him.

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  BRAND ON SANDERS ON

  Vasher snorted. “Come on. Find the stance.”

  Merin sighed, doing as instructed, holding out the long arrow as if it

  were a sword. He had pulled off the fletchings long ago, and held it in one hand, as instructed by Vasher, but ready to use the second hand for power

  if necessary.

  “This is the difference between dueling and fighting,” Vasher explained,

  stepping forward to strike. Merin jumped backward reflexively, resisting

  the urge to use his arrow to parry.

  “Your noble friends,” Vasher continued, “can only fight one way, with

  one weapon. If they lose their Shardblades on the battlefield, they become useless. Disarm them, and you’ve won. A real warrior, however, depends

  on himself, not on his weapon.” He struck again. Merin dodged backward,

  beginning to sweat. The sword stroke had passed far too close—did Vasher

  realize how dangerous his ‘training’ was becoming?

  “You will study with the sword,” Vasher said. “And you will use a Shard-

  blade. It will become part of you, like a limb of your own flesh. Sometimes, however, limbs must be lost to save the life. If you get too accustomed to the Blade’s lightness and power, it will become a crutch.” He swung again; Merin dodged.

  “Come on,” Vasher chastised. “Fight me.”

  “If I try to parry, you’ll just cut my weapon in half,” Merin complained.

  “Then find another way,” Vasher challenged.

  Merin continued to dodge, gritting his teeth. Each swipe was more

  frustrating, and Vasher’s comments began to sound like taunts. How did

  the man expect him to fight? This wasn’t a spar—it was a ridiculous farce.

  Final y, Merin could stand it no longer. Vasher swung, and Merin struck,

  desperately lunging forward, driving the point of his arrow toward the

  man’s chest. The monk easily flipped his sword around, shearing the front

  off the arrow. Then he kicked, sweeping Merin’s feet out from under him

  and throwing him to the sand yet again. When his vision cleared, Vasher

  stood above him, sword placed against Merin’s neck.

  “I want you to remember this,” Vasher said. “This is how every Shardless

  opponent will feel when he must face you. After a time, you will begin to

  think you’re invincible. But remember this feeling—the feeling that drove

  you to attack an expert swordsman with nothing but an arrow. That

  frustration, that hopelessness, drives men to recklessness and heroism.

  Perhaps, if the man you killed had remembered that, you would be dead

  and Alethkar would be part of Pralir, rather than the other way around.”

  Vasher extended a hand, helping Merin to his feet. He nodded toward

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 169

  Aredor and the other noblemen. “They like to pretend that their duels

  are fair—they contrive ways to make them balanced. But no fight is ever

  balanced, Merin. One man is always better trained or better equipped.

  Some day, you will have to defend your life with a sick stomach, or with

  a dire thirst, or even after some woman has spurned you. It will never be

  fair. Honor and Protocol are fine ideals, but at the end of the fight, the one is still alive usually gets to decide who was the more honorable. When you fight, you need to use every advantage you have. Understand?”

  Merin nodded, reaching down to pick the arrowhead up off the ground

  so that no one would step on it.

  “Good,” Vasher said. “Now go jump off the wall some more.”

  chapter 18

  TALN 4

  “You’re going to get me into trouble again, aren’t you?” Lhan said

  flatly.

  Taln ignored the monk, instead studying the approaching monastery.

  At first, he’d been shocked at the changes he’d found in Roshar since the

  last Return, but he was slowly beginning to realize that the similarities

  were even more striking. Over the centuries his sense of the passage

  of time had dulled somewhat, but even for him a thousand years was a

  weighty period. Yet Spearhome monastery—and most of Ral Eram’s other

  structures—stood as they had during the times of the Epoch kingdoms.

  True, they were a little worn—the constant battering of highstorms, even

  within the protection of the city walls, had weathered stone and forced

  some replacements to be made. Cromstone, formed through the drippings

  of uncountable winter drizzles, had formed crusts and stalactites down the sides of less-cared-for walls, giving the city a more organic look. Still, it was amazing in its consistency with his memory.

  “I’ve never gotten you into trouble,” Taln finally told Lhan said as the

  two walked down the street toward the monastery.

  “Oh?” Lhan asked. “Sneaking into the palace libraries? Getting Lady

  Jasnah angry with me? That doesn’t count as getting me into trouble?”

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 171

  “If I wasn’t supposed to go in there,” Taln said, “then you should have

  stopped me.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were intent on the royal libraries,” Lhan said. �
��Do you have any idea how much trouble you made? And that stunt on the street

  corner. Honestly, did you really think that would accomplish anything?”

  Taln smiled lightly. “I can’t be expected to understand the ways of your

  culture—I’ve been gone for a thousand years. Besides, I’m crazy.”

  Lhan raised an eyebrow. He did not, however, make any move to stop

  Taln from approaching the monastery. During the past few weeks, Taln

  had grown increasingly curious about his strange babysitter. The monks

  appeared to have selected the most apathetic member in their ranks to

  guard Taln. Lhan certainly enjoyed complaining, but he didn’t really seem

  to mind getting into trouble. In fact, Taln got the sense that Lhan enjoyed it. Each time Taln did something that walked against the wind—such as his

  visit to the library, or his continuing refusal to go work in the mines—Lhan got a subtle revenge on the monastery leaders.

  Revenge for what, Taln had yet to determine. He was still somewhat

  confused at how a servant of the Almighty could grow so bitter.

  Spearhome monastery was run by the order of Khonra, the “Path of

  War.” Taln could remember a time before the rise of the four monastic

  orders—however, even then, some monasteries had specialized more than

  others, and many of those had turned their attention toward the arts of

  warfare. Vorinism had been devised by Ishar, the spiritual leader of the

  Heralds, not just as a way for men to worship the Almighty. Its most solemn duty had been to prepare men for the coming of the Khothen. As such, a

  system for the training of common men in warfare had been vital.

  Taln was pleased to find the monastery system still in effect, even if

  Vorinism had abandoned its hereditary duty of preparing for the Returns.

  Khonra monasteries felt very different from their cousins, and Spearhome

  was a prime example. Instead of the customary cluster of instruction

  buildings constructed around one grand hall, Spearhome was little more

  than a connection of four large courtyards. There were storage rooms and

  quarters for the monks ringing the walls, but the open training yards were obviously the focus of the complex.

  “Now what?” Lhan asked as Taln paused just inside the monastery