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Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

Page 66

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


  Balenmar shrugged. “Trust? No, I don’t expect your trust. But, do you

  ‘trust’ the would-be king who fights at your side, a man barely quelled by the prospect of a grandson on the throne? How about the Shin assassin who

  holds his knife so diligently at my throat—a man who would betray you

  without thought if you happened to misplace his Bondstone? Do you really

  trust anyone around you, Ahven Vedenel? What is trust to a man like you?”

  “True,” Ahven admitted. “But each of those you describe, trustworthy or

  not, brings me an edge I could not otherwise obtain. You, however, have

  a very poor record as an advisor. King Nelshenden lies in the catacombs

  of Ral Eram, dead at the hand of his best friend, and his son is about to

  fall to my armies. Your advice seems to have been of little productive use.”

  Balenmar snorted. “I’m an informant, not a bodyguard,” he said. “Besides,

  neither man—son or father—had keen enough ears for my suggestions. If

  they had listened, perhaps they would still live. Don’t make their same

  mistake.”

  Jek could tell, however, that Ahven was no longer paying attention.

  The king’s eyes had moved away from the captive man’s lips, and he was

  thinking carefully to himself. Would Ahven execute the old man, torture

  him, or simply hold him for later purposes? Jek thought he knew which

  Ahven would choose—the Idiot King was not fond of loose ends, or of

  men who knew too much about him.

  “I can give you Jasnah Kholin,” Balenmar said idly.

  Jek glanced toward Ahven, and saw that the king had noticed the words.

  “There are only a few exits from those caverns,” Balenmar continued.

  “They all open out onto the eastern side of the mountain. Too far from

  Crossguard to be of use to King Elhokar, but dangerously close to Kholinar.

  What do you think, Ahven Vedenel? Can your armies face both Elhokar

  and Dalenar at once? Elhokar might be a fool, but his reckless temper

  should not be underestimated. How would your army fare against Elhokar’s

  ferocity if the calm rock of the Tyrantbane were pressing you from the east?”

  “You can tell my men how to get through the caverns?” Ahven asked.

  “Bring in a scribe,” Balenmar said. “I’ll give precise directions.”

  Ahven didn’t move immediately. Eventually, the lure proved too great,

  and he waved for a soldier to relay the message. Then the king nodded to

  Jek, who slowly lowered the blade from the old man’s neck.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 473

  Balenmar smiled pleasantly, pulling out a handkerchief and carefully

  wiping the trickle of blood from his neck.

  “What do you ask in return for this knowledge?” Ahven asked, eyes still

  suspicious.

  “Nothing you aren’t already willing to give,” Balenmar said.

  “Be more specific,” Ahven ordered.

  Balenmar’s affable smile didn’t leave his eyes as he spoke. “Just make

  certain your men kill Lady Jasnah and her companions on sight. None of

  them must survive.”

  chapter 52

  DALENAR 4

  Highstorm clouds bulged in the distance. It had only been twenty

  days since the last storm, but it seemed like so much longer. The

  lait’s plants drooped in the constant sunlight, many retreating within their shells. What had been green just a week before was now withered and

  wan. The great Kholinar river had slowed to practically a trickle. The effects of the Searing were strong here, even in the most fertile area of Alethkar.

  But a highstorm was coming at last. And it was no ordinary storm—this

  was the Almighty’s Bellow, most powerful and impressive storm of the

  year. It would bring both life and destruction. Outside the lait, in the less-sheltered farmlands, all spring crops would have long been harvested. Most people would be tucked within safe granite homes; those too poor to afford good stone houses would wait in the vil age stormshelter. No man—beggar,

  thief, or traveler—would be abandoned to the Bellow’s fury.

  In the lait, less concern was necessary. Yet even here they had to be

  cautious. The Bellow’s power would be dulled by the steep valley walls, but not rendered impotent. Wise men remained indoors.

  Dalenar stayed on his balcony, watching the storm approach. During

  recent weeks, it seemed he had little reason to call himself ‘wise.’ He knew not how Merin and Renarin had managed to elude his trackers, but he was

  only mildly surprised at the feat. Both boys had often proven themselves

  too clever for their own good. Dalenar kept his men searching, but he

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  had little hope that he would discover them before they arrived at their

  destination. Even riding at a moderate pace, two unencumbered men would

  have been able to reach Crossguard in two week’s time.

  All of Kholinar knew of the disappearance, of course. Most people had

  even guessed at the boys’ destination. What had been a scandal when Aredor left had since become a catastrophe. Dalenar’s men reported a feeling of

  unrest in the town. The barrooms were full of questions wondering who

  would be heir, and postulations on whether or not Dalenar would have the

  honor to disinherit both of his sons. Even quieter were the grumbles that

  claimed the boys were right—that it was wrong to wait like women when

  the rest of the kingdom fought. Dalenar had lost his courage, they whis-

  pered. The Tyrantbane no longer had the will to fight.

  And they were right. Dalenar knew they were. His neutrality was a

  weak move, an indication of uncertainty. The old Dalenar would never

  have done such a thing—he would have made a decision, then followed it

  with tenacity, no matter what the consequences. That was honor. Holding

  to one’s word, and being willing to give it in the first place.

  Instead, he waited. Without the Oathgates, and with the river being too

  low to carry boats, information from the east was scarce. The battle would have started days ago. Men probably fought and died even as Dalenar

  stared at the approaching clouds. Or perhaps the fighting was over. Elhokar would have had to strike quickly to counteract the grumblings of his allies, who were already fatigued from several years at war.

  Dalenar gritted his teeth, fingers gripping his balcony’s stone rail. He

  needed information. In the past, he had been one of the first to receive

  battlefield news. This time, however, he had placed himself in a tangential position—since he had chosen to support neither combatant, neither would

  see any urgency in keeping him informed. That left him with his own mes-

  sengers, sent to gather what they could. These were few, however—Aredor,

  Renarin, and Merin’s pilferings, combined with the horses Dalenar had been required to give their pursuers, had left his stables depleted of its best stock.

  The storm was near. It was even darker than most, and its approach was

  like the shadow of night. Dalenar thought he could feel it nearing—the

  air cooling, as if in frightened worry. The breeze curling with anticipatory winds. While his cultured Vorin senses reminded him that there was

  nothing mystical in the storms, he couldn’t help shivering slightly

  as the Bellow approached. Its unnatural blackness. Its expected rage. Its

  inevitability.

  A rider appeared on the lait ridge.

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  The man sped down the switchbacks at a reckless pace, his cloak flapping

  with familiar blue. The land darkened behind him, water beginning to pour

  down the rocky slopes. In the distance, Dalenar could hear a low roar—the

  surging Kholinar river, swelling in its banks as sudden and furious waters fed its long-dried thirst. The rider reached the base of the slope as the rains overtook him, obscuring Dalenar’s view.

  A moment later, darkness took the palace, and a wave of wind-driven

  rains smashed into Dalenar. He tightened his grip on the rail, squinting his eyes in the powerful tempest. All was dark. He felt his cloak writhing and whipping behind him. Chill water bit his skin, instantly soaking his clothing. He could hear nothing beyond the incessant slam of raindrops against

  stone.

  He took one rain-laced breath, then fled into his rooms, throwing his

  weight against the stormshutters and closing them behind him. Compared

  to the chaos outside, even the rattling shutters and background roar of

  the rain seemed peaceful. Dalenar wiped his face, dripping water onto the

  sittingroom rugs. Kalkanah would have been furious; Kinae would only see

  them cleaned and dried, offering neither complaint or reprimand.

  Dalenar stood for a moment, thinking about the messenger. The man’s

  news was probably inconsequential. It was unlikely that he was a rider from Crossguard; he was probably just one of Renarin’s pursuers, returning to

  give further word of defeat. Or perhaps he was just a rider from one of the outer tribute cities, come to make a report.

  Yet why would such a man have risked the Bellow? Why ride with such

  direct zeal, rather than stopping for shelter? A quiet, worried impression told Dalenar to seek refuge from the news as he had fled the storm winds.

  There was something very wrong about the messenger’s arrival.

  Dalenar quietly changed his clothing, then walked through hushed

  hallways toward his audience chamber. Servants and minor attendants

  watched him, yet none moved to speak or interrupt. He arrived at the hall

  and seated himself his chair.

  All was still. Then the audience doors burst open.

  The messenger stood haggard and wet. “My lord,” he gasped, apparently

  surprised to find Dalenar already waiting in the chamber. He fell to one

  knee, though he looked so wearied he could barely maintain the posture.

  “Speak,” Dalenar said.

  “My lord . . .” the man said, trailing off, a look of despair in his eyes.

  He was one of the men Dalenar had sent to Crossguard. The messenger

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  looked up, gathering strength, but Dalenar knew the words before they

  were spoken.

  “My lord,” the messenger said, “your son, Aredor Kholin, is dead.”

  Dalenar didn’t react. He didn’t yell out his grief, cry out in pain, or even close his eyes in mourning.

  “How?” Dalenar asked, surprised at the stiff strength in his voice.

  “Executed, my lord,” the messenger said. “By the king, along with Lord

  Jezenrosh and his sons. Crossguard fell eight days ago, the walls destroyed by Awakeners. The king himself led the charge inside.”

  “Renarin?” Dalenar asked.

  “No word, my lord,” the messenger said, looking down. “But . . .”

  Dalenar nodded. The boy had no Shardblade. There was a good chance

  that, if killed, Renarin would be ignored amongst the bodies.

  A small group of noblemen was gathering behind the messenger, just

  outside the audience hall. Dalenar saw confusion and shock. And, with

  those emotions, he saw something else—something Dalenar felt burning

  within his own breast. Something stronger than fatigue, surprise, or even

  logic.

  Anger.

  Dalenar stood. The noblemen outside stopped their whispering and

  waited with expectant eyes.

  “Lord Echathen,” Dalenar said, still amazed that his voice could sound

  so solid and determined when, within, pain squirmed and wept. “You made

  an offer to me the first day of your arrival a week ago.”

  The firm-faced man stepped to the front of the group and nodded. “I

  remember, Lord Dalenar.”

  “Gather your allies and mine,” Dalenar commanded. “Prepare them for

  war. Tell them . . . Tell them that the Tyrantbane is needed again.”

  chapter 53

  JASNAH 12

  Their inn had its own Stormshelter, and Meridas appropriated

  it for Jasnah, himself, and the other noblemen—including, much to

  his obvious regret, Taln and Brother Lhan. By Jasnah’s order, Meridas had

  grudgingly consented to let the innkeeper, his family, and several other

  high-ranked citizens share the space as well.

  Not that there wasn’t enough of it. The inn stormshelter was broad,

  and looked to be of unworked stone—the building had probably been

  built in this location to monopolize on a natural cavern. The shelter

  obviously doubled as a cellar for the inn, and it was cluttered with boxes of winebottles and other provisions. Even with such, however, there was

  plenty of room—enough that Jasnah felt guilty for letting Meridas insist

  that the other refugees be housed in the city’s common shelter, which was

  undoubtedly crowded with travelers.

  Still, the shelter’s emptiness did make for comfort. Jasnah sat in a chair brought down from above, and had situated it near one of the room’s four

  lanterns, ostensibly so she could study a book she had borrowed from the

  monastery. She was too nervous to read, however. She told herself that it had nothing to do with superstition—that she didn’t give any heed to the stories of Stormshades or other creatures that were supposed to stalk the land

  during this, the grandest highstorm of the year. Yet she felt an eerie sense

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 479

  of foreboding as she sat in the dark, cave-like shelter. She could barely hear the tempest’s fury overhead—only the occasional noise of distant-sounding

  winds, mingled with the sound of a leak dripping lethargically, gave clue of what occurred above. Somehow the sounds seemed all the more haunting

  for their unobtrusiveness.

  Jasnah wasn’t the only one in the room who appeared a bit fidgety. Theirs

  was an impatient group. They planned to begin their march northward as

  soon as the Bellow ended, giving them a full twenty days of travel before

  the threat of another highstorm. It made sense to wait out the Bellow in

  Marcabe, but Taln had finished preparing their provisions early the previous day, and they had only needed to wait a little longer for their clothing to be finished. They could have left long before, had the Bel ow not been imminent.

  Instead they waited, Taln’s warnings of pursuit tickling their minds,

  mingling with thoughts of an invading army sneaking cleverly through the

  Oathgates, slowly approaching the weakened Aleth armies.

  Jasnah sighed. For the moment, her mind should be focused on their

  travel to Kholinar. Water would be tight, but Taln was confident they could make it—without horses to worry about missing footing on the uneven

  ground, they could travel mostly at night and conserve liquids. He did

  suggest, however, that they remain close enough to the Aleth border that

  they could seek out a village in case of an emergency.

  The madman himself sat near the far wall, looking over his list of

  provisions. Meridas stoo
d chuckling with his young nobleman adjuncts,

  who were becoming more and more comfortable with the idea that a Parshen was paying them favor. They probably realized that he only did so because

  there was no one better, but their noblemen’s instincts wouldn’t let them

  pass up the opportunity to pander.

  Only one man didn’t seem even slightly nervous about their impending

  flight. Brother Lhan sat with his back to the stone wall, using only a single cushion for comfort. He noticed her regarding him and smiled, rising and

  strolling over to her chair, then seating himself on the stone floor beside it.

  “Lady Jasnah,” he said, his affability seeming strange within the dank

  confines of the stormshelter.

  “Brother Lhan,” she replied.

  “I just wanted to say that I appreciate the new boots,” he said, smiling

  down at the pair she had purchased for him out of the group’s funds. “I dare say, they are the finest present I’ve received from a heretic in my entire life.”

  Jasnah raised an eyebrow at his lack of decorum. She suspected that

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  Taln’s favor of the man came, in part, because they were both incurably

  blunt with their opinions.

  Lhan smiled happily.

  “You seem to accept my supposed heresy without much concern,” Jasnah

  noted dryly.

  “Supposed, Lady Jasnah?” Lhan asked. “I believe I’ve read one of the

  essays you wrote during your days at the New House. Any man who only

  ‘supposes’ that you reject Vorinism might as well climb out into the Bellow and ‘suppose’ that he’ll get wet.”

  Jasnah frowned. “You won’t persuade me to change my views, monk,” she

  said. “More zealous men than yourself have worked on me to little avail.”

  “Oh, I’m not ‘working on you,’ my lady,” Lhan assured. “I’m just trying

  to amuse myself.”

  “How relieving,” she answered, turning away from the short monk,

  glancing over at Taln again. The madman was staring at the wall across

  from him, his eyes lost to memories and his own thoughts.

  “He sees things—and remembers things—that scare him,” Lhan said

  in a quiet voice.

  Jasnah glanced away from Taln, looking back down toward the monk.

  “What kind of things?”

 

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