Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
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her childhood, in the days just after her father had captured Ral Eram for himself. The mysterious collection of glyphs, rendered in the shape of a
magnificent eye with two pupils, had always drawn her attention away from
readings of the Arguments. She had wondered if the eye truly was that of the Almighty, watching her, looking into her soul.
It had been many years since she had last passed those doors, and even
more since she had bothered to wonder about the Almighty.
“Lady Jasnah?” a surprised voice asked as she entered the central devotion room, a large, functional chamber with numerous mats for patrons to sit
upon while the Arguments were preached. Brother Lhardon, First Monk of Peacehome Monastery, was young for his station—barely into his fifth
decade—and had a wide ovoid face.
Jasnah paused as the monk approached. “Lady Jasnah!” the man repeated.
“You’ve missed evening service, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not here for the service, Lhardon,” she informed. “Where is Ral-
makha?”
Lhardon’s face fell slightly. “Oh. He’s in the fourth devotion room.”
Jasnah nodded curtly, turning toward one of the side passages.
“Morning service is tomorrow at dawn,” Lhardon said hopefully behind
her, his voice echoing in the large stone chamber.
Jasnah ignored him, continuing on her way.
“My lady,” Nelshenden said. “That was an abrupt way to treat a brother
of the monastery.”
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“Lhardon should never have become First Monk,” Jasnah said. “He’s far
too smoketongued to be a Kavel—he was only excited because he thought
I might start coming to Peacehome, and bring offerings with me.”
Nelshenden’s look of disapproval did not retreat, but he kept his tongue.
Perhaps he’s right, Jasnah acknowledged. Lhardon did not deserve her annoy ance. It was somewhat frustrating that Ralmakha could still have
such an effect on her, even from a distance.
That distance, however, was closing. She paused outside the fourth door
in the hallway—a portal crafted of iron, bearing ten different incarnations of the ish glyph: glory, peace, holiness, consecration, remaking, monkhood, blessedness, piousness, dedication, and change.
She pushed open the door, which swung easily on counterbalances, and
walked into the small room. There was only one man inside, wearing the
light brown sencoat of a monk. He stood before a group of small statues,
mumbling in a low voice. He paused as the door opened, turning.
Ralmakha had changed little over the last few years. His hair was be-
ginning to thin, but he kept the curls short after monkly fashion, and so
it made little difference. He had a firm Aleth face, more triangular than
square, that had a studious, scholarly cast to it.
“Lady Jasnah,” he said, bowing his head.
Jasnah folded her arms, regarding the man. “Surprised, Ralmakha?”
“By you?” he asked. “It hasn’t been that long, Jasnah.”
Jasnah snorted quietly. “Well, if your refusal to see me was a ploy to get me to visit the monastery, then it succeeded.”
“Lady Jasnah,” Ralmakha said chidingly, “you think I would be that
transparent? I told your man why I could not meet with you at the palace.
I simply have too many important duties.”
Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” she noted. “You’re so important to the
monks that they have you saying the Arguments to the prayer statues.”
Once, he would have risen to the gibe. Now, however, Ralmakha just
smiled. “It is good to see you again,” he said. “I assume you haven’t come to hear from the Arguments? ”
“I need to ask you some questions, Ralmakha,” Jasnah said. “About
Jezenrosh.”
Ralmakha frowned slightly in confusion. “He’s your cousin.”
“Yes, but he married your sister,” Jasnah replied. “I barely even know the man, but you were a ward beneath his father.”
“That was a long time ago.”
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“And you never get messages from your sister?” Jasnah asked. “You never
visit her? Come now, Ralmakha, you probably know Jezenrosh better than
anyone outside of Crossguard.”
Ralmakha turned, looking past the group of prayer statues toward a
mural at the back of the room. It depicted Ishar Elin, giving the gift of the Oathgates to the ten kings who would eventually form a unified Roshar.
“All right, Jasnah,” Ralmakha said. “I’ll answer your questions—assum-
ing you answer one for me.”
“What?”
Ralmakha turned back toward her, meeting her eyes. “Why did you stop
believing?”
Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “You probably don’t want me to answer that.”
“And why not?
“Because you won’t like the answer,” Jasnah replied. “Besides, isn’t it
supposed to be dangerous to blaspheme inside a monastery?”
“It isn’t really blasphemy if you don’t believe in the deity you’re insulting.”
“Let’s just say that I found . . . inconsistencies in the doctrine,” Jasnah said.
Ralmakha raised an eyebrow.
Jasnah sighed, shaking her head. “What are you doing here, Ralmakha?”
she asked. “Why waste your days giving sermons to statues? You know the
monastery looks down on a man who joins once past the day of his Charan.
They’ll never let you rise in their ranks—you’ll always be stuck in a corner somewhere, out of sight.”
Ralmakha’s eyes flashed slightly at the comment, showing a bit of the
fiery temper that hid behind the smiles. “I was meant to be here.”
“Meant to be here?” she asked. “You’re a nobleman, Ralmakha, heir to
a Fifth City! You renounced your family, your duties, and your Blade . . .
for what?”
“Not all of us can deny who we are, Jasnah,” Ralmakha snapped. “Who
are you to speak of duty? You, whose every day is a lie? Do not forget to
whom you are speaking. Do not forget the secrets you once told me.”
Jasnah froze, chilled as if by a sudden highstorm wind. She shot a glance
at Nelshenden and Kemnar, who still stood beside the door. The two took
the hint, backing from the room and closing the metal door.
“How dare you speak of that!” she hissed.
“What?” Ralmakha said. “You haven’t told your men? What of your
brother? Does the king know that his beloved sister, genius of the court,
shouldn’t be there at all? Will you tell your husband—if that heart of yours ever allows you to marry? Will you tell him he wedded an Awakener?”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 211
“You don’t know what you are talking about, Ralmakha.”
“You have a duty given by the Almighty,” Ralmakha informed her
angrily. “A duty you blatantly ignore. Yet you still presume to tell everyone else how they should live! You . . .” Ralmakha trailed off, closing his eyes, breathing deeply.
“This is why I refused to come see you,” he finally said, his voice growing soft once again. “Do you realize I haven’t lost my temper in two years? No yelling, no worrying what my rage will do to me, and those around me
. . . Yet five minutes with you, and it comes out again. You always did have that talent, Jasnah.”
He looked up at her. “I should not have spoken of the events of your
Charan. The Almighty has gi
ven each of us many paths, and we choose our own travels. Ask your questions of me—I will answer.”
Jasnah calmed herself, wondering at her own guilt. She’d fought with
Ralmakha many times before—their debates were some of her fondest
memories. But that, however, had been in Thalenah—a different time,
when they had both been different people.
“What does your brother-in-law think of the king?” Jasnah asked.
Ralmakha eyed her. “Surely you don’t believe the rumors.”
“Which rumors?”
Ralmakha shook his head. “Jezenrosh wishes Elhokar no harm, despite
what you may have heard. The Parshen is a man of passion, and he often says things he does not intend. He and I are similar in that way.”
“There are some who think he might try and take the throne for himself,”
Jasnah said carefully.
“Those who say so are either misguided or they are fools. Jasnah, I grew
up with Jezenrosh—I know him like a brother. He has never liked Elhokar,
but there is one problem with assuming he’d seize the throne. Jezenrosh has no ambition. He hates leadership. He is a scholar—he would have joined
the stormkeepers if he weren’t heir. For a time, I thought he might renounce his throne and follow me into the monastery. Unlike me, however, he had
no brothers who could inherit. No, ruling Crossguard is bad enough, in
his mind. He has no desire to be king.”
“You’re certain?” Jasnah asked.
Jezenrosh nodded. “I’m certain, Jasnah. Jezenrosh is no murderer, and
he hates courtly politics. He married my sister because he knew she was
terrible at intrigue—he loved her simplicity. Together they live, trying
to ignore the rest of the kingdom as best they can. There is no danger to
Elhokar from Crossguard.”
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Jasnah folded her arms again, tapping her foot in frustration. Two men
whose judgment she trusted had given her two polarized opinions—if she
believed the wrong one, her brother could end up dead.
Ralmakha knelt, regarding the collection of knee-high statues—repre-
sentations of noblemen or women who, for one reason or another, couldn’t
come to regular services. They commissioned statues to stand in their place and listen to the Arguments on their behalf.
Ralmakha reached out, selecting one and bringing it to the front. It was
crafted completely of jade—though it had probably been made of clay, then
Remade through Awakening. It depicted a young woman with long hair,
sitting demurely on a small pillar.
“This one is for you, you know,” he said.
Jasnah blinked in surprise. “What?”
“Your mother commissioned it,” he explained. “Right after you left for
Prallah that first time. She always worried about you—she claimed the
philosophies you learned in Thalenah ruined you, made you an unbeliever.”
“My mother always looked for someone to blame,” Jasnah said with a
wave of her hand. “Anyone other than her own daughter. I wonder if she
ever paused to note that the same philosophies turned you into a monk.”
“I wonder,” Ralmakha agreed.
“Destroy it,” Jasnah said. “I don’t want it here representing me.”
Ralmakha looked up, surprised. “Are you sure you want to do that,
Jasnah? Even if you don’t believe, what can it hurt?”
Jasnah shook her head. “You can’t even see the hypocrisy, can you? The
monasteries teach that everyone needs to hear from the Arguments and learn to Remake their souls, yet it lets the wealthy simply buy their way
into devotion. They get all the benefits of being a pious Vorin, without any of the annoyance. Very convenient.”
“The prayer statues are a symbol, Jasnah,” Ralmakha said quietly. “No
one regards them as being equal to actual attendance—it is a metaphor, a
deferential tribute given when one is away.” He stood. “I’ll have the statue removed, but not destroyed. Perhaps some day you’ll want it.”
Jasnah raised a skeptical eyebrow. However, her response was cut off by
a quick knock at the door, followed by Nelshenden pushing it open. “My
lady?” he said, his voice urgent.
“What?”
Nelshenden stepped back, revealing an exhausted messenger. “My lady,”
the man said, falling to one knee. “You must come to the palace immediately!”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 213
Jasnah stepped forward. “What? What is this about?”
The messenger looked up. “Your mother, my lady. The queen is dead.”
Lady Ezavah did not look peaceful in death. The woman looked decayed.
Shriveled. The same as she had looked the day before—the only difference
being the lack of breath.
Jasnah had assumed that the death would have little effect on her mood.
She had known her mother’s passing was near. Yet the loss she felt was
a sickly pit within her. Lady Ezavah had always been a buffer for her
daughter, even when Jasnah tried to escape from the woman’s shadow. The
queen had been a storm of passion when alive, hardly the ideal courtly
woman, but she had commanded respect nonetheless. Much of what Jasnah
had achieved, especially near the beginning, she had accomplished because
of her mother’s reputation.
This woman had made Jasnah strong. Without her, Jasnah felt hollowly
alone. In addition, the death brought other difficulties. Though she felt
callous for thinking of it, the wall protecting Jasnah’s independence had
just collapsed.
Just when I was beginning to regain my feet. The thought made her even more sick. Just when I was beginning to gain acceptance into court again . . .
Elhokar sat in a chair beside their mother’s bed, hands clasped before
him, looking down at the body with an almost child-like expression of
sorrow. Nanavah stood at his side. Meridas and Balenmar stood a respectful distance behind, along with several other court officials. Dalenar and his sons stood beside Jasnah, their heads bowed in respect.
Elhokar stood. “My mother has finally found peace,” he said in a
respectful voice. “The Almighty has taken her to the Dwelling. We will
hold services at Kingshome monastery tomorrow.” He paused, glancing at
his wife.
“With a death, so must new life be symbolized,” Elhokar continued.
“Lady Jasnah’s betrothal shall be announced at the beginning of the dueling festivities.”
chapter 22
MERIN 5
Merin clanked through the hallways of the Kholinar palace, looking
for Aredor. He found Renarin instead. The younger son was in
Aredor’s sitting room, seated beside a table—a brushpen held in his hand.
“You’re writing! ” Merin accused, aghast.
Renarin looked up with surprise, then relaxed when he saw it was only
Merin. He held up his sheet of paper, which was scribbled with very simple glyphs—ones that even Merin recognized. “They’re just numbers,” Renarin
defended. “Men are allowed to write numbers.”
“They are?” Merin asked uncertainly.
“Well . . .” Renarin hedged. “Merchants do it, though they usually use
tallies. A lot have just started using the glyphs for convenience, though.”
“Yes, but why do you need to write them?” Merin asked, regarding the
sheet of paper. He knew very little of mathem
atics, but some of the numbers appeared to be sequences of one sort or another. If there were any connections between the other sets of numbers, however, they were beyond him.
“I just like playing with numbers,” Renarin said in his sheepish way,
accepting the paper back.
Merin shrugged. “Where is Aredor?”
“He’s meeting with someone,” Renarin said, nodding toward the heir’s
audience chamber. “It’s a little early to be off to sparring practice.”
“We’re not going there yet,” Merin explained, setting aside his helmet,
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 215
then reaching over to undo the clasp on his right gauntlet. “Your brother
promised to arrange for someone read to me from The Way of Kings today. I was going to go over to Faithhome to get a reading, but he said he’d arrange for a monk to come here and do it, so he could listen too.” Merin frowned
as he spoke, pulling off the other gauntlet, then peering inside.
“What’s wrong?” Renarin asked.
“The gauntlet,” Merin complained, shaking it up and down for a mo-
ment, then peering inside. “There’s a rock or something stuck inside—it’s
been bothering me all day.” He set the gauntlet aside with a sigh. “Here,
will you help me with the breastplate?”
Renarin rose, helping him pull off the chest piece. Then the younger son
picked up Merin’s gauntlet, putting it on and letting it size itself to him.
“You’re right,” Renarin said as Merin took off the rest of the armor. “There is something in here.” Renarin pulled off the gauntlet, picking at the inside.
Merin pul ed off the last boot, then sat down with a sigh. He was so tired of the awkward metal that he was almost beginning to regret the day he
had saved King Elhokar’s life. Vasher had him training in the Plate so often he felt like he wore the suit more often than he didn’t—he was surprised
the monk hadn’t commanded him to sleep in it yet.
“There!” Renarin said, pulling something out of the gauntlet. “It was
wedged underneath a layer of leather. Look.” He held up something very
different from the rock Merin had been expecting—a small pendant,
tipped with a disc-like piece of carved stone.
“What is it?” Merin asked, reaching for the stone.