Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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


  quickly Ahven had apparently come to trust the stormkeeper. They didn’t

  even know whether or not Balenmar’s map through the caves would lead

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 559

  to Jasnah’s capture, yet Ahven already treated the aging man as a respected councilor.

  The tent room was lush, as a king’s should be, but Jek knew from expe-

  rience that Ahven cared little about such conveniences. He kept the rugs,

  pillows, and wood furniture out of a desire to maintain appearances, and

  nothing else. The pavilion itself was large, with four rooms, but Ahven kept mostly to the open central chamber. It was in this chamber that Ahven now

  stood, speaking carefully with Balenmar, who sat in a plush wooden chair

  beside the tent wall.

  The two men stopped speaking when Jek entered. What were they

  discussing? he wondered with annoyance, then was further annoyed that he should care. He didn’t trust Balenmar, true, but what did that matter?

  Jek wanted Ahven to fail—all the better if the king were betrayed by one

  he had so foolishly accepted into his confidence.

  “You’re back early, assassin,” Ahven said with his firm, yet not overly

  loud, voice.

  “Dalenar Kholin marches on Crossguard,” Jek announced, walking into

  the room.

  Ahven hissed a long, quiet breath through his teeth. “You are certain of

  this information?”

  “No,” Jek said. “I was unable to validate my source. However, I believe

  the fact to be truth. When I entered Crossguard, I noticed something

  odd about the Aleth army, but couldn’t quite place it. I later realized that the camp looked too . . . orderly. Too on guard. It wasn’t the camp of a

  group that had just won a war, but rather that of an army preparing for

  battle. King Elhokar executed Dalenar’s heir when he took Crossguard.

  Apparently, this act finally spurred the Tyrantbane to action.”

  Ahven’s frown deepened, and he leaned one arm against a large wooden

  cabinet in thought.

  “That does sound like Dalenar, Lord Ahven,” Balenmar said. “Though

  why he would let his son ride to Crossguard baffles me.”

  “Aredor Kholin was allowed to become too independent,” Ahven said

  off-handedly. “He wasn’t raised to be the heir, and was given far too much leeway. He must have gone to Crossguard without his father’s permission.”

  “You know this from the songs?” Jek asked.

  Ahven nodded slightly, his thoughts obviously still troubled. He tapped

  his fingers against the cabinet—the one piece of furniture Jek knew the king valued. It was the one that contained his birds. Only three remained alive.

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  “Yet,” Jek said, catching Ahven’s attention, forcing him to read Jek’s lips,

  “you didn’t predict this possibility? You claim to have known that Dalenar would stay out of the war, but he has not. What of your clever knowledge

  now?”

  Ahven’s eyes thinned. “You will not mock me again, assassin,” he ordered.

  “Even subtly.”

  Jek’s face flushed, and he noted a glint of mirth in Balenmar’s eyes.

  Control yourself, Jek told himself. Do not let these easterners rile you.

  “Dalenar Kholin is . . . a problem,” Ahven finally said. “No, I didn’t

  predict this. I’ve had trouble understanding Dalenar recently. He used

  to be an easy man to predict—he was straightforward, a lover of strong

  martial ballads with firm, unyielding beats. But recently his tastes have

  become more . . . longing. He still favors battle epics, but rather than songs of brilliant victors, he requests ballads about men who fight and tragically lose. Introspective pieces. Questioning pieces. Dalenar is not the man he

  once was, and I don’t quite know what he has become.”

  “Dalenar Kholin has grown increasingly unpredictable over the last few

  years,” Balenmar agreed. “It began with his wife’s death, I believe, but the biggest changing point came when he lost both brother and eldest son to

  the Traitor. I think you will have trouble predicting what he will do, my

  lord.”

  Who are you to speak of traitors? Jek thought with an inward snort.

  “All men are predictable, old man,” Ahven said curtly. “And all men are

  erratic. We are beings of moods and passions. A man’s taste in music can

  change from one hour to the next—it is understanding the whole, and the

  meaning of that whole, that gives insight to his actions. For, while moods change, motives are stable. Dalenar Kholin has a strong affection for all

  members of his family. I did not predict his coming, but I can deal with it.

  In many ways, he will be an easier foe to fight than Elhokar.”

  “Unless Jasnah is with him,” Jek said, carefully watching the king’s eyes

  for a reaction.

  Jek was not disappointed. The mere mention of Jasnah’s name made

  Ahven’s eyes flash with momentary uncertainty. Dalenar isn’t the one he fears at all, Jek thought, confirming his suspicions. It’s the woman. Ahven’s dedication of an entire tensquad of troops, along with five full Shardbearers, to hunt down Jasnah was only further proof of that fact.

  “She won’t be with Dalenar,” Balenmar said. “The caverns let out far from

  Kholinar—even if she managed to find horses, she could conceivably have

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 561

  reached the city by now, but there’s no way she could have arrived early

  enough to send Dalenar to Crossguard. He left of his own avail.”

  Jek bristled slightly at the man’s tone. The old stormkeeper didn’t talk

  like a traitor or a conspirator, but instead like a kindly grandfather—one who suffered Jek and Ahven because they amused him, rather than because

  they had anything important to add. Everything about the stormkeeper

  felt wrong.

  “You never told us how you escaped the attack on Ral Eram, old man,”

  Jek said.

  “Of course he did,” Ahven replied. “Or, at least, he told me. Do not think you are privy to all that I know and do, assassin. You are a tool.”

  And a slave, Jek added.

  “Even if Jasnah Kholin is with them, we will prevail,” Ahven said, as if

  to bolster his own determination. “She is a brilliant strategist, but every strategy can be broken, and every tactic countered.”

  “True,” Jek said. “Assuming your side has the better commander.” It

  was as close to a question of Ahven’s abilities as he would let himself

  get. Horseback riding and foreign tongues could be taught in a secret

  classroom, but command skills . . . those required practice and experience to develop. Clever though he may be, Ahven had neither.

  Ahven regarded Jek with a terse, yet delving, glance. “You underesti-

  mated me from the beginning, assassin. You assumed I would be turned

  over by my own people, yet I took their armies for my own. You assumed I

  would never reach Ral Eram, yet I passed through the Oathgates with the

  power of the Heralds themselves. Now you tell me I cannot win this war.

  Someday, perhaps, you will understand. One doesn’t need brilliant military strategies if one can predict what his enemy is going to do.”

  “And you can predict Jasnah?” Jek asked.

  “Everyone is predictable,” Ahven repeated.

  “Even you, Ahven Vedenel?” asked Balenmar, almost forgotten during

  the tense exchange between king and assassin.

  Ahven didn’t
hear the comment, but he saw Jek glance at Balenmar. The

  Idiot King’s eyes flicked to the side, focusing on the aged councilor.

  “Are you predictable, King of Jah Keved?” Balenmar asked. “What are

  your motivations? Why do you conquer?”

  “Because no one has succeeded before,” Ahven answered, almost without

  thought.

  “And that’s all?” Balenmar asked curiously. “That’s your grand purpose?”

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  “No man has ever ruled it all,” Ahven said. “Four thousand years of

  history, and no man has ever conquered all of Roshar.”

  “And you would be the first?”

  Ahven paused, then nodded firmly.

  Balenmar studied the king’s face, eyes thinning slightly. “There’s more,”

  he finally said. “That answer is too easy, King Vedenel. Perhaps you believe it, perhaps not. It is not, however, the reason you conquer. The lure of power motivates many men, true, but it doesn’t inspire hatred and pain such as

  your eyes hide.”

  The room was quiet. “Go,” Ahven finally said, pointing at the tent door.

  “Both of you. Leave me.”

  Jek nodded, bowing slightly and retreating. Balenmar moved less

  alacritously, and as Jek left the tent, he caught sight of the old man’s face smiling broadly in satisfaction.

  chapter 62

  SHINRI 11

  Getting Merin a Shardblade was, of course, an impossibility.

  As far as Shinri had been able to determine, there were only three

  Shardbearers left in the palace, and they would all be master swordsmen.

  No, she had enough trouble coming up with a way to steal and conceal two

  regular swords, let alone worrying about a Shardblade.

  How to get a pair of swords? The Aleth section of the palace had been

  thoroughly looted. She searched through several of the rooms, hoping that

  a departed or slain nobleman might have left a spare sword behind, but if

  such weapons had existed, then the Veden conquerors had already found

  them. She considered simply demanding a pair of swords and hoping that

  her title and air would be enough to keep questions to a minimum. That,

  however, did not seem like a very good gamble, especially considering the

  way Ahven’s noblemen guards treated her. Most likely she would not only

  end up without weapons, but raise a great deal of suspicion in the process.

  Even if she did find the swords, keeping them hidden would be a task

  unto itself. She wouldn’t be able to bring the weapons back to her rooms,

  lest one of her ladies see her or stumble upon the hiding place. She could hide them in a hallway somewhere, but what if she were seen carrying

  them? And, even more pointedly, how was she going to sneak them past the

  prison guard? The man was greedy, true, but she doubted any bribe would

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  be enough to turn his eyes from a pair of weapons obviously intended to

  arm his own prisoners.

  It was at that moment that Shinri realized something very important.

  Perhaps her problems weren’t several, but singular. Or, rather, what if the two problems were simply solutions to one another?

  So it was that she found herself approaching the prison hallway with

  a pouch of coins and a large jug of wine. A visit to Ahven’s physician

  had not only let her pretend to be playing along with the plan, but also

  let her complain of sleepless nights—a claim her ladies had been able to

  substantiate. The resulting herbs, intended to help her sleep, had instead gone into the wine. The only trick would be getting the slovenly guard to

  drink while still on duty. Shinri doubted, however, that he would be able

  to resist the wine for long—especially since she intended to arrive near the beginning of his shift.

  The guard carried a full longsword and a typical nobleman’s knife, a

  weapon with a blade as long as a man’s forearm, intended to be rammed

  through the slits of armored helms or chinks in Shardplate. The weapons

  weren’t the two swords she had hoped for, but they were by far the most

  accessible—especially since she already needed to deal with the guard

  anyway.

  Either way, she was feeling rather proud of herself when she entered the

  hallway to find the prison completely unguarded.

  Shinri paused abruptly, the heavy jug thumping back against her leg.

  The guard’s chair and table sat empty. She stepped forward, peeking

  into the prison hallways themselves. He wasn’t in either one.

  Apprehensive, Shinri set down her jug then approached Renarin’s cell.

  “Renarin?” she whispered.

  “Oh, good,” his familiar voice returned. “You’re here.”

  “The guard’s gone!” Shinri said with confusion.

  “I know,” Renarin said. “He came with some others and took Merin.”

  “Took Merin?” Shinri asked. “Where?”

  “I don’t know,” Renarin replied. There was something odd about his

  voice, something Shinri couldn’t quite place. Then she realized what it

  was. He didn’t sound distracted or withdrawn at all. In fact, his voice was firm. Focused.

  “Listen to me, Shinri,” Renarin said gravely. “Merin is in a great deal of danger. Your Veden king has arrived to attack Elhokar’s forces, but instead of one army, he found two. My father had begun marching on Crossguard

  before King Ahven even left Ral Eram.”

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 565

  “Your father?” Shinri said. “How do you know these things. And why

  would Lord Dalenar go to war now, when before he—”

  “There isn’t time, Shinri,” Renarin said firmly. “Lord Dalenar goes to war to avenge my brother Aredor. You can’t think about that now, however.

  With Merin goes our only hope to escape this city. You have to free him. ”

  Shinri stood, stunned, all of her cautious plans crumbling to dust. “Free

  him?” she asked. “How? I don’t have time to come up with—”

  “They’re probably taking him to the stables,” Renarin interrupted. “Merin

  will fight, if given the chance. You have to give him that chance, Shinri.

  Are you wearing any jade?”

  Shinri paused. “Jade?” she asked, dumbfounded.

  “Yes,” Renarin said.

  “My bracelet is jade,” she said, fingering the inset green stones.

  “Give it to Merin,” Renarin said urgently. “It doesn’t matter how you do

  it, but make certain he gets that bracelet. Go, Shinri. Go now! ”

  Shinri stumbled back away from his cell, taken aback by the intensity

  in his voice.

  “Go! ” Renarin said.

  She did, rushing out of the hallway in a near-daze of confusion. She

  didn’t have time to think of the things Renarin had said. Aredor, dead?

  Merin, taken to the stables? Why? Why would they try to use Merin

  against Lord Dalenar? Why not send Renarin, the far better bargaining

  piece?

  Unless they intended to give a warning—proof of what they would do to

  Renarin if Lord Dalenar did not back down. There was one thing Merin

  was that Renarin was not.

  Expendable.

  chapter 63

  MERIN 13

  The men around Merin spoke in a language he almost understood.

  Many of the words sounded familiar, they were just . . . off somehow.

  Close enough to his own tongue to make him think he sh
ould comprehend,

  but different enough that trying to do so left him frustrated. He was pretty sure he understood one word when it was spoken, however. A name:

  Dalenar.

  Renarin was obviously right about Jah Keved controlling the city. Merin

  kept his head down, walking through the First Palace hallways with a

  stumbling, slump-shouldered gait. The three men had come to his cell

  expecting a fight, so Merin hadn’t given it to them. Far better they assume him broken until Merin was certain of their intentions.

  But what did they want with him? Perhaps they were going to interrogate

  him—the heroes from the stories were often tortured for information. In

  fact, Merin had been slightly surprised that so far no one had made any

  demands of him. His stomach turned slightly at the thought. The heroes

  always withstood their sufferings with an almost passionate zeal—to them,

  torture was simply another test of bravery. Merin, however, didn’t think it would be that easy.

  Well, he thought, at least I don’t have any information to betray—though they probably won’t believe that.

  He would have to try and escape. Unfortunately, the situation did not

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 567

  look good. His wrists were manacled together in front of him, clasped so

  tightly that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to hold a weapon. There were only three guards, but they were big men—and they kept an alert

  eye on him despite his weak shambling. The palace hallways were well-

  guarded, with soldiers at many intersections and the occasional random

  patrol. When he did decide to struggle, he would probably bring another

  half-tenset soldiers running.

  Of course, there was the chance that he wasn’t going to be tortured, but

  released. That made little sense—if anyone were to be ransomed, it would

  be Renarin. He was not only Lord Dalenar’s son, but now that Aredor was

  gone, Renarin was the heir to Kholinar.

  The soldiers led Merin through a less-ornate section of the palace. There

  seemed to be fewer guards here—fewer people in general. The corridors

  were darker, the stones dirtier. Exactly the kind of place one would expect to find a chamber of tortures.

  Merin glanced up at his captors. One soldier stood at his left, leading

 

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