Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
Page 49
had been marvelous fortune that one had found its way to him, even for
a short time. In fact, it was probably better that it was gone. Such things were not meant for simple boys like Merin. It had belonged to the faceless Shardbearer, a charm intended for the workings of some great deed.
A deed I foiled, Merin thought. The assassination of King Elhokar. That glpyhward was meant for foul deeds, Merin. Yes, it is much better lost. In the end, instead of killing the king, the glyphward had served to save the man’s life.
“I stare at them too, sometimes,” Renarin’s voice said from behind.
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Merin turned as Renarin walked up beside him. The younger Kholin
son stood with his eyes focused on the massive glyphrendering. “Even
when I was a boy, I was more interested in the patterns on monastery
walls and floors than I was in the sermons of the monks.” Renarin reached
up, brushing a line of silver inlay with his fingers, as if searching through touch for some meaning that his eyes could not detect. Finally, he turned
to Merin. “How was your recitation from The Way of Kings?”
“Frustrating,” Merin replied. “What about you? How was your recitation
of . . . uh . . .”
“Beyond the Wall of Essence, ” Renarin explained. “And yes, it was interesting—though it’s a Seventh Epoch work, and some of the language is
difficult to understand. You should have it read to you sometime—especially if you’re interested in Lhonomic theory.”
Merin nodded, though he had little interest in the esoteric works
Renarin studied. The basic texts were confusing enough. Merin turned to
go, moving down the hallway toward the monastery exit. Renarin’s eyes
lingered on the massive glyphrendering, but he did follow.
Merin stepped out into the sunlight. Gloryhome was very different from
the other two monasteries in Kholinar. It was constructed on the side
of the lait valley, a moderate hike from the city proper. Renarin explained that Ishar monks, the order named after the Herald who had written the
Arguments, tended to prefer seclusion. Gloryhome’s hallways were always quiet, and there were no courtyards for dueling practice—just seemingly
endless rooms filled with books, scrolls, and reading pedestals.
They began to walk the switchbacks leading down to Kholinar, Merin’s
mind brooding over the same old problems. The morning chill had burned
away as the sun crested the valley walls, and the summer heat was powerful.
That only served to increase his taxed feeling of fatigue. “Do you wonder if we did the right thing, Renarin?” he asked as they walked.
“It is a man’s way to wonder,” Renarin replied.
Merin sighed, rolling his eyes slightly. Unfortunately, Renarin was the
only one he could talk to about the topic. “Well, do you find any answers
when you wonder?”
“I assume you’re talking about my brother,” Renarin said.
Merin nodded.
Renarin walked for a moment before speaking again. “I don’t know,
Merin,” he finally said. “I don’t think it would have been right to try and stop him. You saw how he was that week before he left. This is something
he needed to do.”
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“And if he dies out there?” Merin asked. “If he is killed in the war, won’t his death be partially upon us, since we didn’t do our duty by stopping him?”
Renarin shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“How can you be so ambivalent?” Merin demanded with frustration.
“This is your brother we’re talking about! If we had been the ones leaving for war, Aredor would have gone with us—you know he would have. Aredor
would have insisted on accompanying us, if only to protect us from harm.
But we let him go alone.”
Renarin fell silent. Eventually he just sighed. “You think I haven’t
considered these things, Merin? You think I haven’t stood in the night,
staring east, wondering what Aredor is doing? If he’s all right? I’ve seen you brooding these last few days. Well, you’re not the first one to worry. People always whisper about me in court, about how I’m always thinking about
things no one else cares about. Wel , I think about things I care about—and let me promise you, if it involves Aredor’s flight, I’ve considered it. Far harder, and far longer, than you probably have.”
Merin recoiled slightly at the outburst, spoken in Renarin’s usual near-
monotone, yet snappish nonetheless. A moment later, Renarin turned
toward him, a bit of the hostility draining from his posture.
“I’m sorry, Merin,” he said. “I wish I could answer you. It seems I’m
having enough trouble answering my own questions lately. I’ve always been
able to see things—answer problems that no one else can. But now, when
it finally matters, I can’t find anything but more questions. I don’t know where to find the answers to any of them.”
Merin looked down, feeling a bit ashamed. If Renarin had tried that
hard and was still confused, what chance did Merin have of finding the
answers. If only . . .
Merin looked up. The city was approaching, and from their vantage he
could make out much of its sprawl—including several distinctive buildings.
Renarin doesn’t know where to find the answers . . .
“I think I do,” Merin said. “Come on.”
The Elinrah temples confused Merin. For the most part, the nobility
ignored the Elinrah—and, what little they did say about the religious sects was always scornful. That felt odd to Merin, since in other areas of faith, the nobility were quick to prove how righteous they were.
During his months in Kholinar, Merin had been able to discover a bit of
what made the Elinrah unpopular. The ten Heraldic sects were connected in
the noble mind to the common man—but not in the same way as the Order
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of Khonra monks, who spend their time serving the poor and the feeble.
No, the Elinrah were considered something that only citizens participated
in, something beneath noble attention. There also seemed to be some sense
that the Elinrah were unorthodox, even profane, though Merin couldn’t
understand how that would be. The Elinrah worshiped the Heralds and the
Almighty, just like Vorinism. They were parts of the same religion.
Renarin balked at the temple entrance. “I don’t think we should be doing
this, Merin.”
“Why not?” Merin asked. “Elinrah soothsayers came through my village
all the time, and everyone agreed that they were useful. They predicted the floods during my twelfth year, and one told my mother she was pregnant
before she even knew. My father always got their advice to decide which
day to begin the planting or harvest.”
“That’s superstition, Merin,” Renarin said. “The Almighty doesn’t work
like that, giving his truths to whispering soothsayers and mystics.”
“Why not?” Merin asked. “Doesn’t He want us to know what to do? The
Arguments say He loves us, right? So, He’d want us to ask Him what to do.”
“We ask for blessings through the monasteries,” Renarin said.
Merin rolled his eyes. “This is the same thing. Come on, I’ll show you.
If the Elinrah were evil, would your father let them into his city?”
“I don’t think he has much choice,” Renarin said. “They’re too popular to
keep ou
t.” He looked up, staring at the statue of Prael Smokewish, Herald
of Secrets. The statue depicted a dynamic figure—a tall, lean man who was
bare-chested beneath his sencoat. The Herald’s right arm was upraised,
fingers curled as if grasping an unseen object. The head pointed east, toward the dawn, and the left hand held a stone Shardblade.
“I’ve never liked that statue,” Renarin said. “I don’t imagine Prael’Elin
like that. He’s too . . . imposing to be a scholar.”
“Are you coming in or not?” Merin prodded.
Renarin finally sighed, climbing the steps and joining Merin. Merin
nodded, trying to look more confident than he was. In truth, he didn’t
have much of an idea how to proceed. Where he came from, the Elin-
rah didn’t have grand temples or beautiful statues. Elinrah priests were
humble-clothed men who traveled the villages making auguries or giving
blessings, and while most towns had Elinrah fraternities, Merin had been
too young to join their clandestine meetings.
Yet he had come this far. Surely the Elinrah here gave auguries, like the
priests did in the villages. The entry-chamber was dark, lit only by strange lanterns that were covered in dark blue glass encasings. The flames flickered
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as things distant, their light frail. Several figures in dark grey, or perhaps dark blue, robes stood in conference at one side of the room. As soon as
they noticed Merin and Renarin, however, one of the men scuttled forward
with a quick step.
“My lords!” he said eagerly, his excited voice echoing strangely in the
gloomy room. “Welcome, welcome. I am called Kamp. Have you come for
blessing, wisdom, or augury?”
“Augury,” Merin said.
“Ah, excellent, my lords,” the man said with a friendly bow. He took
special note of Merin’s Blade, then squinted at Renarin’s face and paled
slightly. “Why, Lord Kholin!” he exclaimed. “This is . . . a rare honor.”
“It is a rare time,” Renarin replied with a frown.
“What kind of augury do you require, my lords?” the man asked. “Of
the sands, of the wines, or of the wards?”
Merin only recognized one. “Wards,” he replied.
“Very good. Please, if you will—there is an augury room to your right. I
shall fetch you a seer.” Kamp nodded toward a small chamber at the side of the entryway, then scuttled away and disappeared into a darkened corridor.
“Bit cheery for an evil cultist,” Renarin noted, frown still in place.
Merin snorted, leading the way toward the augury chamber. “Elinrah is
no cult,” he snapped. “It’s just another part of Vorinism. Honestly, there’s even a Herald outside!”
Renarin didn’t respond, instead allowing himself to be led into the side-
room. It was oblong, with a carved double eye on the floor. In the center
of the eye, sitting on top of the glyphs Kav and Dal, was a stone table with a bench along one side and a stool on the other. Three of the blue lanterns hung along the sides of the room, and silver glyphs were carved almost
ostentatiously along the walls. They were neither as beautiful nor as intricate as the glyphs in the temple—more like background decorations than actual
pieces of art.
A few minutes later Kamp returned, leading an elderly man by the arm.
The old man looked fairly unhappy to need the assistance, and held his
head high—an attempt at dignity slightly undermined by his faltering step.
As soon as the two reached the stool, the old man swiped at the younger
priest’s arm. “I am quite fine on my own,” he snapped in a grumbling
voice, seating himself. Kamp didn’t let go of the old man’s arm until he was completely situated, however—an action that earned him another swipe.
The old priest composed himself, gnarled hands resting on the table as he
eyed Merin and Renarin in the soft light. “I don’t recognize them,” he said.
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“They’re here for an augury, Grandfather,” Kamp said, voice light-hearted
despite the treatment he had received. “Noblemen. The distinguished man on the left is Lord Renarin Kholin, son of our great Lord Dalenar. And,
unless I guess incorrectly, our other guest is Lord Merin Kholin—he who
saved the king’s life on two different occasions. They are very important
men.”
The old man snorted. “What do they want?”
“An augury,” Kamp reminded gently.
The old man closed one eye, leaning forward to examine Merin a
little closer. Then he grunted and bent down—teetering precariously for
a moment—and hefted a small bag up from underneath the table and
placed it on the table. He began working at its knots with two sets of
gnarled fingers, a task that took him no small amount of effort—however,
he swatted Kamp’s hands away every time the younger man reached to help.
“Grandfather is one of our finest seers,” Kamp said as the old man finally pulled free the knot and began removing a set of worn wooden disks the
width of a man’s fist. “They say that wisdom and age brings great power in seership, and that a man who—”
“Shut up,” the old man snapped. He eyed Merin and Renarin again.
“Who’s paying?”
Merin paused. “I will, holy one. Uh, how much is the usual donation?”
“It’s not a donation; it’s a payment,” the old man said. “And it’s fifty
ishmarks.”
Renarin snorted at the extravagant price, but Merin removed a sapphire
of the appropriate value and set it on the table. Sight of the large gem
finally made the old man perk up, and he shook himself slightly, adopting a more formal air. His fingers moved with a bit more dexterity, bespeaking
a familiarity as Kamp handed him a large sheet of paper, which the old
man proceeded to put down over the table’s top.
Merin frowned, sitting back as the man flattened the large sheet, then
set five candles at the table corners. This part was unfamiliar to Merin—the other seers had only drawn the disks from a bag, using the symbols on them to make predictions.
Once the paper was flat, the old man arranged the wooden disks into
several piles, all face down, their glyphs hidden. “Your name?” the old man asked.
“Merin,” Merin said. “Merin Kholin.”
The man reached into his bag again, riffling through a group of stones
inscribed with glyphs. He selected one—the one inscribed with Riem, the
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basis for Merin’s name—then set it at the very center of the table. “Day
of birth?” the old man demanded, distractedly pulling out a piece of black charcoal and scribbling a few numbers beside the stone at the center.
“Tenth day of Mar-Nolh,” Merin said.
The old man paused. “A portentous day indeed,” he said. He looked back
at the paper, holding his charcoal and frowning slightly. “Merin . . .” he mumbled. “Riem, Ezer, Rosh, Ish . . .”
“Seventy-seven,” Kamp said helpfully.
The old man hissed, swatting at the younger priest with a twisted hand.
Then he proceeded to scribble the number beside the others. “All Forces,
no Essences . . . another portent. You are a strange child indeed.”
Merin blushed slightly, beginning to feel embarrassed. This wasn’t what
he had expected at all. He glanced at Renarin, expecting to b
e confronted
with skeptical eyes. The younger Kholin, however, sat with an interested
posture, watching the old man’s markings with unblinking eyes.
Numbers, Merin realized. Should have known those would interest him.
“And so,” the old man said, studying Merin. “Why do you seek an augury,
Merin Kholin—he who was birthed on a tenthday and named after the
forces?”
“We seek news of a friend,” Merin answered. “A friend we fear lost.”
“This friend’s name?”
“Aredor,” Merin said. “Aredor Kholin.”
“Ah,” the old man said, exhaling slowly. “Should have guessed that one,
eh? Very wel .” He reached into his sack again, pul ing free a stone inscribed with the glyph shal, and set it on the table. “Would you know his date of birth?”
“The thirty-ninth of Mar-Shin,” Renarin said.
The old man nodded, scribbling numbers around Aredor’s stone as well.
Once finished, he reached into his bag one last time and picked out a larger, perfectly-round stone with no markings on it. The others had been of some
kind of granite, but this was a pure black—probably onyx.
“It is in order,” the old man finally said, holding the onyx sphere in his left hand. “You may begin turning over the chips, one from each of the
five piles.”
Merin nodded, reaching forward and turning over the first wooden disk.
This was more what he had expected.
“Ah,” the old man said. “Khor, time and age. What is the next disk? Shal?
I see. Pause for a moment.”
Merin frowned, waiting as the man scribbled more on the tabletop,
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forming a cascading sequence of numbers from one stone to the other. “Not
good, not good,” he mumbled. “I see danger. Danger indeed for the heir
Kholin. Yes, danger and fighting. The next chip.”
It was Riem, the symbol of unchangingness. This set the old man into a flurry of scribbling and mumbling.
“Danger?” Merin asked with a frown. “That’s it? Of course there’s
danger—he rides to war!”
“Patience,” the old man snapped, idly rolling the onyx sphere in his left
hand. “You have to give the numbers time!”
Merin sat back with a huff. Renarin, however, continued to lean