Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

  “But leave out Lord Kemnar’s part in it. Say you decided to warn us on

  your own.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Nachen bowed again, then paused, looking back. “I didn’t

  believe you at first, my lady—I thought you were a fool for trying to pass your man off as another Herald pretender. But, well . . . if there are Vedens on our soil, the other things you said might be true too. That’s why I

  brought my cousins and sons with me. We won’t see our homeland taken

  by their like, no indeed.”

  Jasnah blinked in surprise as the man bowed again, then moved off

  to obey her command. “What was that?” she demanded of Kemnar. “He

  thought I endorsed Taln’s lunacy?”

  Kemnar shrugged. “You travel with him, and you obviously trust his

  judgement.”

  “I don’t trust his judgement,” she snapped. “He’s insane!”

  Kemnar just shrugged again.

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  Jasnah sighed. “Well, answer this, then. How did that man know

  where to find us? We told the villagers we were heading straight north.”

  At this, Kemnar flushed slightly. “I told him,” he said. “I thought it better to risk having an informant behind, just in case. If no pursuit came, then I’d betrayed nothing. If it did come, then I figured we’d rather know for sure that we were being followed, even if it risked giving away our location.”

  “You didn’t come to me with such postulations, Kemnar,” Jasnah said

  angrily.

  “You’re the one who’s been telling me that I should be independent, now

  that I have a Blade,” he said. “Besides, you wouldn’t have let me tell him, no matter how trustworthy a man he was.”

  “And I would have been right,” Jasnah said. “What if he’d led them

  straight to us?”

  Kemnar shook his head. “You have to trust people sometimes, my lady.”

  I did, Jasnah thought. I trusted my brother, and look where that got me. She shouldn’t have told Kemnar their path—she should have let everyone,

  including Meridas, think they were going north.

  Except . . . this time, Kemnar had been right. You have to trust people sometimes. Who? The madman who thought himself a demigod? The oily man who thought to own both her bed and her brother? The servant who

  was no longer a servant, a man who thought so little of her judgement that he simply avoided asking questions that he knew she’d answer in a way he

  didn’t like? No, trust was not something she would easily give again.

  Yet, she no longer had a heart to chastise Kemnar. He was right—he had

  to make his own decisions now. He had entered the game. He was a player

  now, no longer a pawn. He had to learn that.

  And so did she.

  chapter 54

  MERIN 12

  Aredor was dead.

  Merin had seen men die before. Despite superior equipment and

  training, the Aleth spearmen had hardly been immune to danger. Arrows

  had claimed their share, and Prallan spears an equal portion. Heavy

  infantrymen, with maces and hammers, had occasionally wreaked havoc

  on Merin’s line. And, even more rarely, his companions had faced the

  terrifying Blade of the Shardbearer. He had lost squadmates, even friends, to that near-unstoppable force.

  But Aredor’s death was different. Aredor was . . . something more. He

  had been so confident and so capable. Everyone knew Aredor was one of

  the best duelists in Alethkar; Merin had seen his performances both on the practice field and while fighting the assassins that night of the dueling

  competition.

  Aredor represented nobility—the new nobility, the truth that Merin had

  learned it to be. Not distant or ponderous, but affable and helpful. Aredor had bespoken a simple honor which went beyond words read by monks

  or scribes, a goodness even the stories hadn’t quite been able to capture.

  Aredor was . . . he was like Lord Dalenar. Such men weren’t supposed to

  be mortal.

  Merin shivered slightly, leaning against the corner of his cell, the flats of two different walls scraping his back. The room was bare, without furniture

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  or even blankets; the guards had only given him a rusting chamberpot and

  a small bowl to hold his meals. The room was barely tall enough for him

  to stand, and he could cross from one side to the other in five paces. He

  hadn’t been given any opportunity to explain himself—the guards who

  brought his food never spoke to him. King Elhokar obviously felt no need

  to demand information from his captives—he just wanted Merin to suffer.

  And Renarin too, Merin thought sickly. If I was going to get myself into this, I could have at least left poor Renarin behind. He had heard nothing of the younger Kholin—Merin couldn’t tell if there were any other cells in

  the hallway, but if there were, Renarin hadn’t answered to his calls.

  Merin shivered again, pulling his cloak close. At least they had let him

  keep that. His cloak—Lord Dalenar’s cloak. Lord Dalenar, who had just lost his second of three sons. Did he know yet? How would he react? He’ll fight, Merin thought. He’ll have to. How could the king do such a thing, putting his cousin’s head upon a spear like that? Aredor saved the king’s life that night. It—I could barely duel a blind man. Aredor defeated those Shardbearers. And now he’s dead.

  Hopefully, Aredor had died in battle. Even King Elhokar couldn’t have

  been cruel enough to execute his own cousin. But . . . Jezenrosh was the

  king’s cousin too, and the king had risen against him. Aredor had believed the king was wrong—had believed it strongly enough to disobey his father’s commands. What was it he had said the day of his departure?

  There’s something very convenient about the way those assassins struck, giving the king a perfect opportunity to move against Crossguard. Could a man be so eager for war that he would exaggerate an attempt on his own life?

  Aredor’s desiccated head, lit by uncertain torches, was an image not easily forgotten. Even if the king hadn’t gone to war under false causes, then he had at least been responsible for Aredor’s death and desecration. This was the man Merin supposedly served—the man the ballads, and The Way of

  Kings, said was supposed to be the most honorable man in the realm.

  He was also the man whose life Merin had helped save on two separate

  occasions.

  It didn’t make sense. Why would the Almighty preserve King Elhokar’s

  life under such remarkable circumstances, only to let him act the tyrant

  upon his own people? What of Merin’s supposed heroism? His great deed,

  the salvation of the king and earning of his Shardblade, suddenly seemed

  tainted. Merin’s nobility was linked to that of the king—if Elhokar was

  unworthy of his station, then that transformed Merin’s act from one of holy bravery into something more like random misfortune.

  The questions bothered him so much that he actually asked his guards to

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 497

  bring him a monk, so he could demand to know why the Almighty would

  preserve one man just so that he could murder a much better one. The

  guards, of course, ignored the request. They only came to bring food, and

  even that happened far less often then Merin would have liked. In fact, it appeared that his cell was completely unguarded. His small barred window

  provided an empty view of a blank hallway. It was lit only by the sunlight that must have come in though an unseen window.

  The days passed in painful lethargy. Th
e room was maddeningly small;

  the closed-in walls, with no sight of the sky, made him frantic at times. His head still hurt from the blow he had taken, and Aredor’s death weighed

  upon him—mixing with his grief for Lord Dalenar, who probably thought

  Renarin dead too. It was nearly too much. As his worries loomed, Merin

  began to fear for his sanity.

  He was rescued by an unlikely source. It happened by accident, during a

  moment of particular desperation. Logically, Merin knew the walls of his

  cell were made of immobile stone—and yet, he could see them creeping

  forward, sliding toward him. Rather than snapping, however, he found

  himself seeking refuge in the now-familiar stances Vasher had taught

  him. Strangely, the forms brought him a measure of peace to combat the

  frustrations of captivity.

  He had learned long ago, as a young spearman, that focus was the first

  skill a warrior should learn. The man who could focus on the battlefield—

  remembering his training despite arrows, screams, and enemy spears—was

  usually the man who lived. Vasher had expanded upon this training, forcing Merin to focus on his stances and styles until he knew their moves as part of himself.

  It appeared that within this focus, the sounds and dangers of battle

  weren’t the only things that could be ignored—it allowed him to push

  back the walls, breath deeply despite his enclosure, and keep himself strong.

  The forms didn’t help with his grief, but at least he didn’t have to fight depression and claustrophobia at the same time.

  Either one alone was more than bad enough.

  Merin stared at his finger, focusing on the double images in front of

  him. Slowly, he let one eye become dominant, and one of his finger-images

  became clear, then invisible. He smoothly switched his attention to the

  other eye, letting one image of his finger fade away while the other one

  reappeared. He couldn’t make both disappear at once yet, but he was getting close. A few more days of meditation, and he would have it.

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  A few more days. Before his captivity, he would have groaned at the

  thought of such forced meditation. Now, however, he knew that he needed

  to fill his time and his mind—lest he think too hard about his small

  enclosure. And so, when his body tired of the dueling forms, he moved on

  to the little meditation exercise Vasher had taught him.

  Merin had heard that monks spent long hours in meditation, pondering

  philosophy—or sometimes thinking about nothing at all, instead just letting their minds be clear. Perhaps Vasher had gotten this particular exercise

  from some form of monastic training. Whatever the original source, Merin

  was grateful for it. It wasn’t performing its original function—Merin was

  beginning to doubt he would ever return to Kholinar to learn to ‘skep,’

  whatever that was. However, the meditative exercise was serving a far more vital purpose—it was keeping Merin sane.

  Sane for what, he still wasn’t sure. The cut of stone used in the walls told him he was probably being held in Ral Eram. Either King Elhokar would

  order Merin executed for treason, or he would order Merin released to

  Lord Dalenar—who, in turn, would undoubtedly strip Merin of rank and

  Blade. After all, that was what Merin had earned through his disobedience.

  Merin paused, letting his eyes focus and lowering his finger. Had he

  imagined that sound?

  A small stone from the wall directly in front of him suddenly popped

  free and fell to the floor with a crack. Merin stared at it for a dumbfounded second, then looked up.

  “There you are,” said a muffled, yet familiar, voice. “I thought the rock

  would never wiggle free. How are you holding up?”

  “Renarin?” Merin said, jumping to his feet in an enthusiastic motion.

  The hole was in the back wall, the one opposite the door. “Renarin, where

  are you?”

  “I’m in a cell, of course,” Renarin replied. “Much like yours, I suspect. I would have spoken to you earlier, but I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy?” Merin said, rubbing his fingers along the hole’s sides, trying to

  expand it. There were a few cracks in the wall here, where the stones had

  settled over time, but none of the others seemed loose. “Busy how? You

  said you’re in a cell.”

  Renarin didn’t respond.

  “Renarin?” Merin asked, a bit frantic.

  “Yes?” a distracted voice said a moment later. “I’m glad you’re all right, Merin, but I do need to get back to my work.”

  Blessed winds, Merin thought. He’s snapped. Like I almost did.

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  “Renarin, how can you talk like that?” Merin asked. “How can you be

  so calm after what happened to Aredor?”

  “I knew Aredor was dead before we left Kholinar,” the voice responded.

  “Or, well, I knew he was dead without actually knowing it. Anyway, I was

  ready for what we found. We have to think of other things now—other

  works. The ones who control this palace could very well capture all of

  Alethkar unless we find a way to help.”

  Merin paused. “Those who control the palace?” he asked. “Renarin, what

  are you talking about?”

  No response.

  “Renarin?” Merin asked a little more loudly. “Who controls the palace?”

  “The Vedens,” Renarin eventually said. “That’s right—you were

  still unconscious. They kept hitting you to keep you down. Men fear

  Shardbearers, even when they aren’t unarmed. Those weren’t Aleths

  who took us, Merin. They were too big, too . . . Veden. Anyway, they’ve

  taken the Oathgates. I saw their army as we rode up into the city. It was

  big.”

  Merin stepped back, blinking in surprise. The Vedens? Invading Aleth-

  kar? With the Aleth armies weakened from fighting one another . . . Even

  to his untrained strategic senses, that sounded very bad.

  “We might be able to do something,” Renarin was saying through the

  hole. “I’m not sure yet—I’ve still got so much work to do.”

  “Us?” Merin asked with a sinking feeling. “Renarin, we’re locked in

  cells. Besides, without my Blade, what am I? Even with it, I couldn’t help Aredor.”

  Throughout my time in Kholinar, I kept wondering what my place was. I could never find it. Maybe that’s because I didn’t have a place. I wasn’t supposed to be there.

  “Possibly true,” Renarin said. “Possibly untrue. I really don’t know yet.

  But you were the one who convinced me to go try and save Aredor, and we

  knew that was a hopeless battle. What reason do we have to give up now,

  when things are remarkably less predictable?”

  “Less predictable?” Merin asked. “Renarin, we’re locked in a dungeon.

  And, unless you know of a couple more loose stones, we’re probably going

  to be here for a while.”

  “You might want to look for more stones,” Renarin said. “Ral Eram is

  well-built, but sometimes we forget how old it is. The Oathpact Kings built it in the Sixth Epoch—that makes the palace a good two thousand years

  old. Still, I doubt you’ll be able to pry your way out. Some chipped rocks

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  in a dividing wall are one thing, but a potential escape route—well, don’t hope too much. Now, if you
’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Excuse you?” Merin said. “What is so pressing?”

  “Work,” Renarin said distractedly.

  “Work?” Merin asked. “What work?” There was no response. Merin

  nearly screamed in frustration, not wanting to go back to the lone silence.

  “Renarin?” he said, grasping for anything. “Renarin, I’m sorry your sphere got destroyed.”

  At first he assumed there would be no response. Then, blessedly, Renarin’s voice returned—though much weaker this time. “Destroyed?” Renarin asked.

  “Oh, I broke that on purpose.”

  “On purpose?” Merin asked with surprise.

  “Of course,” Renarin said. “How else was I going to get a shard of stone

  small enough to slip past our captors? Oh, and I grabbed this for you.”

  There was a slight scraping sound. Merin peeked through the hole be-

  tween their cells as Renarin pushed something through, forcing it forward

  with his soup spoon. Merin reached out to catch the object just as it plopped free from the wall.

  It was a shiny black opal. Merin’s opal, from his Shardblade.

  Merin stood in stunned amazement for a full ten heartbeats. “Renarin!”

  he said with a joyful cry. “Where . . . how . . . ?”

  “Right after I broke the onyx sphere,” Renarin said. “I pretended to

  stumble, then grabbed your opal off the ground. There were so many pieces

  of black rock on the stone then that they didn’t notice one missing, even if it was a bit larger. I figured you would want it.”

  Merin closed his fingers around the smooth stone. He almost felt . . .

  like he had been given a piece of himself back. A sane, hopeful piece. As

  long as he had his opal, he could restore his Blade—if he ever managed to

  get another one.

  “Thank you, Renarin,” he said through the hole. There was, however,

  no response—whatever weirdness Renarin was about, it had claimed his

  attention again.

  chapter 55

  TALN 10

  All was not right. The Return had begun, over three months lost

  already. The other Heralds had not contacted him. Ral Eram was held

  by invaders, while the Epoch Kingdoms—the few that remained—squab-

  bled amongst themselves. Something was wrong with his nahel bond, and the powers it granted had failed him.