The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  “No, my lord,” the stormkeeper replied. “In a few months, it will be two years since she last opened her eyes.”

  “Was anything ever discovered about the . . . incident?”

  “No, my lord,” the stormkeeper replied.

  Elhokar sighed, bowing his head. Finally he stood, looking down at the sickly figure. “I have tripled my offerings at the monastery. The monks offer up daily prayers on her behalf, yet the Almighty ignores their cries.” He looked up, meeting Jasnah’s eyes. “I am king—should the Almighty not heed my will? He mocks me.”

  Jasnah stared back, uncertain how to reply. A part of her was glad that Elhokar was so devoted to the traditions of the past—it was good for his rule, for the people were more inclined to support a king they thought was pious. Yet, the piece of her that scoffed at superstition—institutionalized or not—wanted to offer what comfort it could. She remained quiet.

  Elhokar looked toward the stormkeeper. “How long?”

  The old man shook his head. “Two years ago, I would have said weeks, maybe months. She has lasted years. I cannot say how long the sleepsickness will continue.”

  Elhokar nodded, turning toward the door.

  “My lord,” Nanavah interrupted, drawing his attention. “I apologize if this is not the time, but there are matters that should be discussed.”

  Jasnah eyed the red-haired queen.

  “Which matters?” Elhokar asked.

  “It has been two years, my lord,” Nanavah explained. “And it may be longer. Surely your distinguished mother would have chosen a husband for Lady Jasnah by now.”

  So that was to be the game. Jasnah eyed the queen. The woman had made progress indeed.

  Elhokar, ignorant as always to what was left unsaid, turned to regard his mother, nodding to himself. “She has a point, Jasnah. Your youth is waning. We both know Mother’s patience with you was nearly at an end—if she hadn’t fallen sick, she would have chosen a husband for you long ago, whether you approved of him or not.”

  “I don’t see what we can do about it,” Jasnah said carefully.

  “I am king,” Elhokar said with a wave of his hand. “We both know very well that if you ask, I can declare Mother unfit to choose your spouse.”

  Which would pass the duty of choosing my husband on to my nearest female relative, Jasnah thought, keeping her face calm. And, without any living paternal aunts, that duty would fall on her brother’s wife. Nanavah.

  Despite Balenmar’s warning, Jasnah was surprised at the queen’s subtle move. When did this happen? Jasnah wondered. When I left her, Nanavah had little interest in politics beyond the pretty baubles her station provided her.

  “My lord,” Jasnah said, adding a slight edge of emotion to her voice. “I would . . . but I think I should wait, just in case. I am not that old yet, and Mother still might awaken. I think patience is best—in the name of tradition.”

  Tradition. That was a word that always worked for Elhokar—it made him think of their father. Elhokar liked to think that he was a traditional man.

  “Very well,” the king said. “But not much longer. Come, Nanavah, we must prepare for the feast.”

  The queen shot Jasnah a displeased look as she followed her husband from the room. Yes, Jasnah thought, maintaining her calm face, you’ve grown as a politician, my queen, but you’ve only had a short time to learn your husband’s mannerisms. I’ve had a lifetime.

  “You coming, Jasnah?” Elhokar asked.

  “In a short time,” Jasnah said. “I want to spend a little more time with her.”

  “Very well,” Elhokar said, leaving.

  Jasnah looked over at the stormkeeper. “Leave us,” she told the scholar. The old man looked a bit surprised, but followed the king, closing the door behind him.

  Jasnah stood, grinding her teeth in dissatisfaction as the soldier joined her. Nelshenden was head of her personal guard. Tall, proud, and Zirconic, he was everything an Aleth nobleman was supposed to be. If he’d been born to a better family, or had the luck of inheriting a Shardblade, he probably would have been quite a force in Aleth politics. Even as it was, half of the court’s women swooned every time he walked by—even if he was too low a match for most of them to consider.

  “Anything?” Jasnah asked.

  Nelshenden shook his head. “The six months passed without another attempt on her life.”

  Jasnah regarded her mother with dissatisfaction. Six months previously, word had reached the army of an apparent attempt on the sick woman’s life. Many had dismissed the event, but Jasnah had sent Nelshenden just in case.

  “I looked into the servant who claimed to have interrupted the attempt,” the young nobleman said. “He isn’t the most reliable of sources—he fled the city only a few days after the event—but he was known to be a bit smoketongued long before he even began working in the palace.”

  Jasnah nodded distractedly.

  “My lady,” Nelshenden said with a patient voice. “Why would anyone try to kill your mother?”

  “I can think of one person,” Jasnah said, eyeing the door.

  Nelshenden paused. “The queen?” he asked with shock.

  “She obviously wants to be rid of me,” Jasnah said. “If Mother died, then Nanavah would gain my Right of Decision. It shouldn’t be hard for her to find an unattached, unimportant nobleman somewhere with whom to imprison me. Once she’s free of me, the winds only know what she’ll do with Elhokar.”

  Nelshenden didn’t respond, and she turned toward him. “You think I’m being paranoid, don’t you?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time my lady has . . . overreacted,” he noted.

  Jasnah shook her head, turning back toward her mother. Ezavah had been strong once—a fighter. Jasnah knew by first-hand experience; their frequent clashes had been the talk of the feminine political circuits. Yet she missed the woman. Different as they had been, their arguments had provided more of a bond than others would understand. The fights had made Jasnah strong—made her the woman she had needed to become.

  “Do you hate it that much, then?” Nelshenden asked.

  “Hate what?” Jasnah replied.

  “The idea of marriage.”

  Jasnah paused. He loved her. She had always known that. That was part of what made him such a valuable bodyguard. Did she hate marriage? No, she did not—but she definitely didn’t want to end up with the man Nanavah chose for her.

  “I just want to find out what that woman is up to,” Jasnah said.

  Nelshenden sighed. “Very well. What do you want me to do?”

  She turned toward him—he had sacrificed much. “Nelshenden, I am sorry to keep you out of the end of the war.”

  “Honor is not in fighting, my lady,” he said. “Honor is in doing one’s duty—and my duty is to you. If my watching your mother brought comfort to your mind, then I consider my duty well fulfilled.”

  Jasnah allowed herself a slight smile. She kept Kemnar because of his raw effectiveness, but she kept Nelshenden for his honor. He was so earnest—yet so young. He would make some woman a fine husband some day, and Jasnah intended to make certain he ended up with a woman who deserved him. For now, however, she needed him with her. Things were happening in the palace, things she was not prepared for. She had left one battle to join another.

  “Take your pick of my guard,” Jasnah said. “Order them to keep very careful watch on my mother. You, Kemnar, and I have other work to do.”

  Nelshenden nodded, but he frowned as well.

  “What?” Jasnah asked.

  “She is our queen, my lady. I don’t see that she has done anything worthy of such distrust.”

  Good, trusting Nelshenden—he wouldn’t understand. “It isn’t just the queen,” Jasnah said. “There’s something greater going on, something I’m afraid my dissociation from the court has kept me from hearing about. Four days ago, someone tried to assassinate the king.”

  Nelshenden paled. “When? How?”

  “On the bat
tlefield,” Jasnah said. “A Shardbearer with no crest or glyph—but with a fully bonded blade—came from behind our lines and attacked Elhokar with complete disregard for Protocol.”

  “A curious event, my lady,” Nelshenden said, “but I’m uncertain that counts as an assassination attempt.”

  “I’d probably agree,” Jasnah said. “But Balenmar arrived just after the attack. I think he knew about it—no, not that he planned it. You noted his departure from Ral Eram, I assume?”

  Nelshenden nodded. “He left about a month ago. He said he had urgent news for the king.”

  “He knows something, Nelshenden,” Jasnah said. “And if he discovered it from within these walls, then we can find it as well. Until I know what kind of danger my brother is in, I can’t afford to let Nanavah ship me away to some far corner of the kingdom. Does that make sense?”

  Nelshenden nodded.

  “Good,” Jasnah said. “Gather your men and set the guard. These next few weeks will be pivotal.”

  chapter 7

  Taln 2

  He arrived with the highstorm.

  The summer storm was furious in its passing, a tempest of wind and rain enveloped by a mantle of black clouds. The guards of Ral Eram’s massive iron wall huddled in their cloaks, seeking shelter in towers or crouched beside wet battlements.

  And when the storm had passed, raging toward the western horizon, the guards stood to find a solitary figure standing before the city gates. Muscular with dark, tanned skin, he wore only a makeshift loincloth. His long, matted hair dripped from the stormwater, and his head was bowed, his face hidden, his posture slumped. He seemed almost ready to collapse.

  To his side, he held a bright silvery weapon, point down with the tip stuck into the stone, his hand resting on the pommel. The size, sheen, and beauty of the sword made its nature apparent even from the top of the wall. A Shardblade.

  The guards regarded their captain questioningly, a couple fingering forearms wrapped and tied with cloth glyphwards, sewn by their wives. Men did not travel during highstorms—especially in the summer, when stormwights and other creatures were said to roam.

  The guard captain peeked over the side of the wall. The stranger had not moved. He stood in a puddle of water, not shivering despite the cool mountain breeze. The city gates had been closed for the storm, as per tradition. Tradition also held, however, that no one should be forbidden entrance into the city—especially not a nobleman with a Shardblade.

  The captain nodded to the others, who moved to crank the gate open. As they did, he ran over to his office and dug out his own glyphward—sewn with a glyph he did not recognize, but his wife said stood for ‘holiness.’ He held up the square of white cloth. He usually avoided appearing superstitious before his men.

  He tied it on anyway.

  The walls of Ral Eram no longer shone. Taln frowned, resting his hand on Glyphting as the city gates crept open, careful not to push on the sword too hard lest it sink into the stone. His mind was still muddled—his memory was like a lake thick with crom, and many images were still difficult to distinguish. The walls . . . they were steel, crafted from gigantic blocks of stone that had been Remade by Awakeners during the Sixth Epoch. The Oathpact Kings kept them polished, a glistening symbol of their bond.

  Yet they shone no more—not like he remembered. They were dull and dark. Was it his memory that was wrong? No. No, while many things were fuzzy, this was clear. He could picture the walls of the city, picture them shining in the sunlight, just before . . . when? When he had left during the Eighth Return, the last time he had seen them. After that, he had died at the Keep of Veletal.

  Perhaps he had failed. Perhaps the city had fallen. How long had it been? How long since his death? One century? Two? What would have happened to mankind if he had failed?

  What happens to them if I fail . . . ?

  He smelled smoke. The massive wall before him burst into flames, fire shining high into the sky like a beacon. He wavered, slumping to his knees. He could hear the screaming. Horrible, bestial yells.

  If I fail . . . if I fail . . .

  The flames spread to the stone around him, burning everything, their heat oppressive. The smoke twisted and curled, and he could sense something dark within those fires. Something moving closer. Coming . . . coming . . .

  No! Taln told himself, forcing himself to his feet. No! I did not fail. I held Veletal long enough before they killed me. I must have. If I’d failed, mankind would be dead. There would be no Return. I would no longer exist. There are men on the top of that wall. You did not fail.

  The fires withdrew, the wall was doused and returned to a dull grey, and the screams withdrew, growing soft, then silent.

  He stumbled forward, toward the open gates. A couple of guards stood just inside, watching with apprehensive eyes.

  “S . . . state your name and rank for the city registers, my lord,” the lead guard sputtered. He wore a dark leather vest, and carried a spear.

  Taln paused. A spear. What foolishness is this? That will be useless against Khothen limbs. Where is his hammer? He had much work to do—but this was a matter to discuss with kings, not guards.

  “My . . . lord?” the man asked uncertainly, several other guards moving to back him up. The guard’s accent was very difficult to understand—that in itself was a clue as to how long Taln had been gone. Fortunately, despite the strange accent, there was something in Taln’s mind that immediately began adjusting for the language difference, at it had done so often before.

  “Kings,” Taln croaked, his voice sore. “Gather the Oathpact.”

  The guards regarded each other uncertainly. Had they misunderstood him?

  “The Oathpact Kings,” Taln repeated. “Leaders of the Epoch Kingdoms. The Return has begun. I must speak with them.”

  “The . . . Oathpact?” the lead guard asked. “My lord, you must be mistaken. This city belongs to Alethkar.”

  Alethkar. The name was familiar. Taln raised a hand to his head, rubbing his temple. Alethkar . . . Bajerden’s kingdom. This city belongs to Alethkar. That was not right. He had trouble remembering why, but he knew it was not right. There should have been ten kings, not one.

  “Take me to the king,” Taln said, stepping forward.

  The guard moved forward to block him, and Taln reacted instantly. Glyphting flashed, shearing the tip from the man’s spear, then stopping beside his neck.

  Taln paused. This man only did his duty. Taln withdrew the sword, stumbling slightly. “I . . . am sorry,” Taln said, lowering Glyphting.

  The guard exhaled slowly, his eyes wide as he regarded the end of his broken spear. The walls . . . the spears . . . something was very wrong. The world had changed while Taln had been gone.

  There was a way. He could almost picture it—a scene, with him and the others, addressing the Oathpact Kings. It had been Jezrien’s idea.

  “The Sign,” Taln whispered. “Please, tell me you remember the Ballad of the Return.”

  “The . . . Ballad of the Return?” the guard asked, reaching down to finger a cloth-written glyph tied around his arm with two black strings. “Which one?”

  “Any of them,” Taln said. “They mention a law. A duty all kings must perform. They must allow me to give them the Sign. Your religion. Vorinism . . . it teaches of this, yes? Vorinism still exists, I hope? It teaches of me as well.”

  “My lord? I am a good Vorin, but . . .” the guard trailed off. “You can’t mean to say that . . .”

  “I am Talenel Elin,” Taln said. “Herald of the Almighty, one of ten who saw the dawn of this world. The time of Return has come again.”

  chapter 8

  Jek 1

  Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, stood at the edge of the lush Veden chamber, watching the heathens enjoy their party. They paid him little heed—while his people were uncommon in the desolate lands of the east, there were often a few in most large cities. He held his cup, but did not drink from it. Even after nearly ten years exiled
in the uncivilized lands of Jah Keved and Alethkar, he had not grown accustomed to the Kanaran people’s overly-sweet wines.

  The room, like most of its kind, was formed of stone blocks. The people tried to hide their desecration of the rock—using rugs and woven mats for the floor, and hangings for the walls. Jek was careful not to rest his back against the stones as he watched; he might have been Truthless, but he was not a blasphemer.

  He still wasn’t certain at the reason for the festivities. However, he had traveled to Veden City several times, and it seemed that the nobility of the country needed little excuse to throw a celebration. Apparently, this time they regarded the Aleth victory in Prallah as one of their own, even though they had sent very few men to the endeavor. That was another trait of the easterner mentality—they often took credit for achievements that were not their own.

  Jek’s attention was focused on the far side of the room, where the Veden king sat on his throne. Jek had been watching the man all evening, comparing rumors with facts. What he saw gave him little hope. King Ahven Vedenel was a man with the mind of a child. He watched over the feasting nobility with wide, innocent eyes, drinking wine from his goblet and smiling foolishly. When he spoke, his words were slurred with the dullness of one touched in the head.

  The true king, then, was the man who stood beside Ahven. As self-​important as he was bald, Karathach was often dubbed ‘The Lord Puppeteer’ in whispered rumors. Jek’s observations, however, left him with little respect for the man’s manipulative abilities. It wasn’t difficult to play puppeteer over such a witless king.

  Jek had seen enough. He nodded to his companions—a group of merchants who had, for a price, allowed Jek to join their company—and slipped from the room. He needed to retire early if he was going to be awake in time to assassinate King Ahven in the early morning.

  chapter 9

  Jasnah 3

  The First Palace, designed to accommodate the entourages of each Epoch Kingdom at the same time, had eleven different feast halls. Only the one in which Jasnah now sat—the one that had originally been dedicated to Alethkar—had seen any use during the last several decades.