Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

  “So powerful . . .” said the seer beside her, the boy who was sitting up.

  “He’s so powerful.”

  “He? Who is he?” Ahven prodded.

  The girl shook her head. “Everything used to be clear, but now . . . it’s

  as if someone has reached out and scattered my sand.”

  “He’s interfering intentionally?” Ahven asked.

  “No,” the girl said. “He’s just . . . so powerful that he makes it difficult for the rest of us. His light is bright enough to make the shadows of what we might have seen disappear.”

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  “He helped take the Elsecaller,” the boy whispered. “And she is linked

  to everything. We told you to take her, and to hold her, but you let her go.

  She is the key. He who controls her controls the world.”

  Ahven gritted his teeth, but most of his rage appeared to have dissipated.

  He was in control again, though he was still obviously frustrated. He

  glanced at the third child, the one who was lying on his back. Jek edged

  a little closer, and saw to his horror that the child wasn’t just resting. The young boy was staring sightlessly into the air, his eyes blank. His body

  was rigid and motionless, a bit of spittle dribbling slowly down his cheek.

  Somehow Jek knew this was no trance or passing fit. Something had

  happened, something that had taken the child’s mind.

  “When did he go?” Ahven demanded, nodding toward the boy.

  “A short time ago, my lord,” the cloaked figure said. “We were going to

  tell you tonight.”

  “The void took him,” the female seer whispered. “He saw something in

  the sands that frightened him.”

  “What?” Ahven demanded.

  The girl shook her head. “He wouldn’t tell us, but it scared him. Terrified him. The muddled sands wouldn’t tell him any more about it, and he grew

  frustrated. He looked where men should not, though we told him not to.”

  “He had to know,” the non-comatose boy said. “It calls to us, you know.

  The knowledge.”

  Jek shivered, backing away from the pedestal and its youthful seers.

  Ahven, however, looked more annoyed than he did frightened.

  “Only two left, and they are of no use,” the king said. “Keep looking. Do

  not rest until you discover where that girl has gone!”

  The female seer nodded, though from the look of her tired face, Jek

  doubted she would be able to remain awake much longer.

  Ahven stared at the seers for a moment longer, then turned and threw

  the tent flaps out of his way and stalked outside. He pointed at the first guard he saw.

  “You!” he commanded.

  “Yes, my lord?” the man said.

  “Go to the generals by my pavilion,” he told the messenger. “Give them

  an order on my behalf.”

  “What order, my lord?” the soldier asked.

  “Tell them to prepare the men to march,” Ahven said. “We leave for

  Crossguard within the hour.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the guard said, then bowed and backed away.

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  “Crossguard?” Jek asked with surprise.

  “There has been enough waiting already,” Ahven said. “I will sit no longer.

  It is time to attack.”

  “The generals won’t like moving this quickly,” Jek noted careful y. Ahven’s temper was probably still lurking beneath the newly-restored calm face.

  “Their preference is immaterial,” Ahven said. “By the time we arrive,

  Elhokar and Dalenar will likely have finished killing one another. Even if they haven’t, their separate forces will be weakened irreparably. I will not wait three more days to claim Alethkar. We march tonight.”

  Jek nodded, more because he saw the inevitability of the march than

  because he agreed with it. Besides, there was another topic he was curious about.

  “What happened to that boy?” he asked, glancing back toward the brown

  tent.

  “It takes them all, eventually,” Ahven said with a dismissive gesture. “The temptation to look is too great.”

  “To look at what?” Jek asked.

  Ahven glanced at him, annoyance glaring in his eyes. Jek bowed his

  head, a signal that he was done asking questions.

  “I’m trying to decide whether to send you after her or not,” Ahven finally said.

  “Who?” Jek asked. “Your wife?”

  “She should not have run,” Ahven said. “I warned her what would happen

  if she disobeyed me.”

  “Why send me after her?” Jek protested. “We don’t even know where she

  went. Are you certain you want to waste me on another frivolous chase?”

  Ahven didn’t answer. He turned and stared toward the army. Men were

  already starting to bustle about—the messenger had obviously spread his

  news. The generals would soon come looking for Ahven, demanding an

  explanation.

  “You will hunt her eventually,” Ahven decided, “but not today. Come,

  we have preparations to make.”

  chapter 66

  SHINRI 12

  Shinri sat quietly on her stone bench, knees pulled up against her

  chest in a very unladylike position, watching as the Shardbearer Merin

  repeatedly summoned and dismissed his Blade. He appeared fascinated by

  the process.

  Merin held out his hand. The milky smoke gathered in his palm, then it

  lengthened, vaguely outlining the shape of his Shardblade. The smoke then

  coalesced, transforming into the silvery Shardblade. Merin stared at it with a thoughtful expression, then dismissed it, his eyes trailing the smoke as it rose toward the sky. It happened the exact same way it had the last tenset times, yet he regarded it with wonder.

  He was still just a boy, despite his manly girth. Yet he was a boy who had slain three Shardbearers in a period of just a few months—two of those

  times he hadn’t even owned a Blade himself. In fact, he had defeated the

  final one with his hands manacled together and his body weakened from

  extended captivity.

  He was also a boy who had been brave enough to fight for his freedom,

  but heartless enough to kidnap the very woman who had helped him

  escape. He was a boy who had accidentally killed the man Shinri was to

  have married, a boy who had saved King Elhokar’s life on two separate

  occasions. He was both a fool and a hero.

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  Merin summoned and dismissed his Blade again, ignorant of Shinri’s

  judgements.

  Renarin’s bench sat up against the southern wall, to Shinri’s right.

  Like Merin and Shinri, he had been allowed to retain his possessions,

  and he held his onyx chip between two fingers, caressing it with an

  almost motherly touch. There was a strangely . . . patient air about him.

  In Shinri’s opinion, he was far too unconcerned about their captivity. So

  far, he hadn’t begun any more of his strange number patterns, but he kept

  glancing at the wall longingly. If he remained a captive much longer, Shinri didn’t doubt that he would begin scratching at the wall like he had in the other cell.

  Shinri wasn’t certain what to make of their current accommodations.

  They sat in the same three-room chamber that the guards had ushered

  them into several days before, just after their escape from Ral Eram. They had not been treated poorly; yet neither had they been given permission

  to leave their r
ooms.

  Nanah, the capital of Lakhenran, sat against a series of seaside cliffs, and Shinri’s prison had been built near the top of one of the inclines. The main room bore a large window on one side, granting a view of the city and its

  harbors, with the ocean spreading out beyond. Nanah was a city of domes

  and spires—the Lakhenran had always been an artistically-inclined people.

  The rooms were sparely furnished, but Shinri and the others had been given every requested amenity. Merin’s Blade had not been removed from him,

  and while their captors had given them nothing in the way of audiences or

  information, they had been treated with respect.

  Despite Shinri’s fears, no Veden soldiers had come for them. The guards

  at their chamber doors wore Lakhenran light blue—though the white

  Veden crests that marked their shoulders bespoke the true rulers of this

  nation.

  What did it mean? Surely the Veden soldiers had come through the

  Lakhenran Oathgate looking for Shinri and the others. While the Vedens

  probably assumed that their captives had escaped to Kholinar, they

  would have been fools not to check through friendly Oathgates just to

  be certain.

  Shinri shook her head. She wasn’t certain why they hadn’t been taken

  back to Veden City yet, but Merin and Renarin’s choice to travel to Lakhenran was pure insanity. And bringing Shinri through against her will . . .

  Merin summoned and dismissed the Blade. Shinri kept her anger

  contained, contenting herself by giving the boy an icy glare that he could

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  not see. Renarin had been the one to pull her through, but Merin had

  drawn his Blade against her. Though they were both at fault, it was difficult to maintain any measure of proper anger with Renarin. He was just too

  unassuming to be provoking. Merin, however . . . everything about him

  was infuriating.

  It wasn’t just his common blood, either—Shinri half-wished she were

  petty enough to let that provide her a reason for disliking him. No,

  she knew her emotions came from something deeper, and something a

  bit more shameful. She was jealous.

  Merin had only been a lord for three months, yet he already seemed

  more comfortable in his place than Shinri did. He spoke to Renarin as

  an equal—even as a superior. Back in Alethkar, on the few times she

  had interacted with Merin, he had seemed uncannily comfortable with

  Aredor and the others. Merin didn’t seem to have the same worries and

  concerns that she did. He didn’t seem to feel the same sense of internal

  falseness—the same conflict between loathing the nobility and wishing to

  emulate them.

  Who was he to slay Shardbearers and so easily take his place among

  kings? Who was he to be so comfortable when Shinri felt anxious? The

  injustice of it all was frustrating.

  Merin summoned and dismissed his Blade again, and Shinri couldn’t

  hold her tongue.

  “Is that really necessary?” Shinri snapped. “I believe you’ve quite firmly established that if you call, the Blade will come.”

  Merin looked up with surprise, then flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It just

  . . . seems to help me think.”

  He seemed so harmless. Shinri read him, gauging his personality,

  trying to look past her biases. He was an earnest man; it was easy to tell from his treatment of others that he cared what they thought of him,

  and considered their evaluations to be more truthful than his own. He

  wanted to be trusted, and he wanted to do what was right—or, at least,

  what others told him was right. He didn’t like small spaces—he constantly

  paced, and insisted that the window remain open at all times except during highstorms. He didn’t know how to talk to women—Shinri’s study of him

  obviously made him nervous. Harmless indeed.

  But what was it Renarin said about him? A Windrunner? That was, of course, ridiculous. Windrunners were things of legend. They were one

  of the Ten Epellion Knighthoods—sects of mystical Epoch Warriors

  who had supposedly been founded to keep peace in Roshar and fight the

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  Stormshades. Merin was a fine duelist, especially considering his limited

  training, but he was hardly legendary.

  And yet, there was something to Renarin’s words, something that made

  them difficult to dismiss idly. Perhaps it had been that odd look in his

  eyes—one that had been strange even for Renarin. Or perhaps it had been

  the combined effect of his eerie, maddened scribblings and his foreboding

  words. And then there was her own memory, her . . . longings. She had

  felt something when she’d touched the Oathgate opals. She had difficulty

  remembering specifics, but there had been something there—something

  marvelous, and something she had an amorphous longing to feel again,

  even if she couldn’t quite recall the experience.

  She did have power over the Gates—that much could not be disputed.

  What happened seventeen years ago . . . ? Renarin’s whispered words returned to her. She tried to dismiss them as the ramblings of a strange mind, but

  she couldn’t. Not quite.

  And that frustrated her even more.

  There was something very odd about the sensation of summoning

  and dismissing a Shardblade. Merin couldn’t quite define it, even after

  tensets of repetitions. When he called the Blade, there was an anticipa-

  tion within, like a held breath. His heartbeats seemed to thump more

  loudly as the summoning progressed. And then the Blade formed, falling

  into his waiting grip, never taking him by surprise or catching him

  off-balance.

  The dismissal was like a puffed breath. There was no anticipation, no

  waiting for heartbeats; it simply happened. Yet in that brief moment when

  the Blade vanished, Merin felt a sharp sense of familiarity. That fraction of a heartbeat, gone before he could do more than acknowledge it, gave

  him pause, causing him to summon and dismiss the blade repeatedly.

  He felt like he had dismissed a Blade sometime before, though that was

  impossible. He hadn’t Bonded his Blade until earlier that very morning,

  his hundred days—extended slightly by time spent separated from the

  Blade—finally up.

  That sensation . . . it was so familiar. He almost reached out his hand to summon the Blade again—he felt that if he could try just a few more times, he would be able to pinpoint where he had felt that dismissing sensation

  before.

  He caught himself, however, lowering his hand. He didn’t look at Lady

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  Shinri, but he didn’t have to look to know that her eyes were on him,

  studying him, understanding him. He didn’t want to meet those eyes, for

  he knew his own guilt would show. Why had he let Renarin persuade him

  to bring the girl? If they hadn’t kidnapped her, she would be safe. There

  was no reason for her to be with them, held in yet another cell—which was

  exactly what it was, despite their guards’ assurances that they were only

  being detained for their own protection.

  At least Merin had his jade. He looked down at the bracelet around his

  wrist. He had managed to pry the thin metal backing off of the bracelet,

  and then pushed down the stones so that they touch
ed his skin when

  he put on the piece of jewelry. He wore it always, despite its feminine

  designs, and the world around him wiggled with motion invisible to

  everyone else.

  He also had his Blade. Ironically, his possession of the weapon was

  what kept him from trying to break free from the captivity. Leaving a

  Shardbearer with his Blade was a very dangerous move—one that indicated

  a hesitance. Perhaps their captors weren’t sure what to do with Merin and

  the others. Perhaps there was still a chance that he would be set free.

  That would be for the best. Merin didn’t want to try and fight his way to

  freedom. He bore these people no anger—from what he understood, they

  were a conquered people themselves. Unfortunately, if they held him much

  longer, he would have little choice. He had to get back to Alethkar so he

  could help Lord Dalenar.

  The room’s guards obviously understood the precarious nature of the

  captivity. If Merin did decide to try and escape, he could slaughter tensets of men before he was subdued and his Blade taken—if, indeed, he was

  subdued. The soldiers acted with respect, and not a little nervousness; none of them wanted to be the man who sparked a conflict. They pretended

  that the ‘delay’ wasn’t really incarceration, and for the moment Merin

  pretended the same.

  But for how much longer? So far, Renarin seemed contented to wait, so

  Merin did likewise. Yet how long could they waste? Alethkar was under

  attack, and Lord Dalenar had undoubtedly gone to war. Merin’s place was

  at his lord’s side.

  And yet he had allowed Renarin to persuade him to come to Lakhen-

  ran—a path that took him away from his lord. Had it been cowardice

  that had driven Merin to accept Renarin’s suggestion? Did he fear facing

  Dalenar and receiving punishment for riding to Crossguard?

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  The internal accusations were difficult to ignore, and the guilt only

  made him more fidgety. When will we go? Merin thought with increasing frustration, shooting a glance at Renarin.

  Renarin sat with complete disconcern. Merin had to assume that his

  friend knew something, or had guessed something, about their predica-

  ment. Renarin would know best—he had far more experience with political