The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  The result was fertility. Rockbuds lined the sides of the valley—so many of them, in fact, that he could barely see the rock underneath. All of them were in bloom, despite the fact that the last highstorm had been several days before. The landscape was green instead of stoneish tan—it had been unsettling at first, all of that color, but he was quickly growing to appreciate it. Aredor said that the rockbuds only withdrew into their shells during the very height of summer—when the air grew too dry even for the humid valley—or the dead of winter, when the rains fell so steadily that many plants had to withdraw lest the moisture rot them.

  The roads of the city were kept free of rockbuds, and the ground was so smooth that Merin had begun copying Aredor, wearing only a pair of comfortable slippers. Back in his village, most buildings had been allowed to give in to the elements. Rockbuds were not removed, and continual buildup of cromstone from winter storms formed stalactites on overhangs, making the buildings look almost like natural formations of stone. In Kholinar, however, everything was sculpted with neat lines. Triangular shapes predominated, with peaked arches and doorways, and many buildings were constructed on grand scales, with massive columns and large open foyers—something only possible in a place where the highstorms lacked fury.

  Aredor led Merin toward the edge of town, where they would find Shieldhome monastery. As they traveled the smooth streets, Merin shook his head in wonder. Two years earlier, he had traveled to a monastery to learn to wield a spear. What would he have thought, had he known he would be returning several years later to take up dueling as a nobleman and a Shardbearer?

  Such thoughts were banished, however, as Merin idly caught sight of a passing building. He froze immediately, staring with awe—and more than a little apprehension. The large black structure was crafted in a bulbous shape that seemed to defy regular architectural conventions. It almost looked like an enormous pyre—a massive burst of flame that had somehow been captured and transformed into rock.

  Aredor and Renarin paused beside him. “It’s the Kholinar Kablan,” Aredor said. “Hall of the Awakeners. A little eerie, isn’t it?”

  Merin nodded. He’d heard of Kablans before, of course, but they didn’t have one in Stonemount—or in any of the nearby villages. In the rare instance an Awakener was discovered in a rural area, they were always sent to a larger city, and the village was paid a percentage of the profits that came through the Awakenings the creature performed.

  A group of servants was driving a line of carts toward the Kablan, each one bearing a large block of stone. A couple of figures stood at the base of the marble building—and they wore black. Merin shivered as one of the figures turned toward him. Merin couldn’t see what it looked like because of the distance, but he knew the stories. Awakeners weren’t quite human, not any more. Their arts . . . changed them.

  “I’ve always wondered what the inside looked like,” Renarin noted, looking at the Kablan.

  Aredor shivered visibly. “I have absolutely no idea, and no desire to find out. In fact, if I never had to see an Awakener except on the day of the Charan, it would be fine with me.”

  “They are the fuel of our economy,” Renarin said in his unassuming voice. “Without them, gemstones would be useless, and we would be paupers, my brother.”

  “Well, that’s fine,” Aredor said. “Let them fuel the economy—as long as they do it from within their building.”

  Merin nodded. “I agree,” he mumbled. The figure was still looking at him. He had only seen an Awakener once, during his Charan. It had been a young man, one who hadn’t been an Awakener very long—only the unlearned were wasted on the Charan. That Awakener hadn’t looked any different from a regular person, but he would change. Apparently they all did, eventually.

  Merin could still remember the glowing bit of quartz, hovering above the Awakener’s hand. He could remember his fear as the quartz floated forward, still glowing, to touch Merin’s skin. It had shattered, sending a strange sensation through his body—a sudden vibration, a feeling like each of his bones had been scraped against rough stone at once. Supposedly, that one experience made Merin immune to Awakening for the rest of his life. There was no reason to fear the creatures, for they no longer had power over him. Even still, when the day of the Charan came each year thereafter, he had found a way to be out in the fields when the Awakener arrived to perform the ritual on the children of age that year.

  “Be thankful, brother,” Renarin noted, “that the Almighty didn’t decide to make you an Awakener.”

  Aredor snorted. “Come on, lets get to the monastery while there’s still light.”

  Merin nodded eagerly, joining Aredor as they walked away. Renarin lingered for a moment, then followed. Soon, they had left the Kablan behind, and a structure with a familiar architecture rose up before them.

  Aredor said that Shieldhome monastery was one of Kholinar’s most famous landmarks. Founded during the Ninth Epoch, the monastery contained the most skilled masters of dueling in all of Alethkar. As they walked through the broad, glyph-covered gates, Merin immediately felt a familiarity. Two years earlier, when he had first joined the military, he had been taken to a Strikehome Monastery in Norkedav for initial training. While the city had been much less grand than Kholinar, the monasteries had been nearly the same. The ground was covered with sand for training, and the monastery was made up of four walled courtyards with quarters for the monks lining the outer perimeter.

  Aredor kicked off his slippers, motioning for Merin to do the same. “I need to go speak with the monks,” Aredor explained. “And have them gather their masters to see if any are willing to train you. Go over and watch the men spar, if you like. It will give you a feel for the training.”

  Merin nodded as Aredor wandered off. There were several groups practicing in the courtyard, including one to his left which was composed of men in colorful clothing—obviously lords. Merin wandered their direction, curious.

  Several pairs dueled with Shardblades—an action that Merin would have considered dangerous, had Aredor not explained that once a Shardblade was Bonded, it could be dulled for sparring. The majority of the men, however, dueled with regular swords. As Merin approached, he realized with a sinking feeling that he recognized several of these men.

  “Well,” Meridas said, holding up a hand to stop his duel. “Greetings to you, peasant Shardbearer.”

  Merin frowned, wishing he’d recognized the man earlier. What was he doing in Kholinar? Meridas was attendant to the king; he should have remained in Ral Eram.

  “Come to learn how to duel, little citizen?” Meridas asked, sword held casually at his side as a few other noblemen gathered around him with interested expressions. “You’ll have to be careful. Wouldn’t want to get . . . hurt by accident. Then someone else would have to be given that pretty Blade of yours.”

  Merin sighed, turning away from Meridas and the others. He felt their laughter on his neck as he walked away. Every time that he felt like he was growing to be accepted in Dalenar’s court, someone reminded him that he didn’t really belong. Aredor and Renarin could only do so much—they had their own lives, and their own duties. They couldn’t watch out for Merin forever—eventually he would have to find his own way.

  You won’t be able to make everyone like you—but you might be able to make them respect you. Dalenar’s words from before returned to him. Merin looked down at his Blade. Perhaps dueling was the way to earn that respect.

  He wandered across the courtyard, looking for other duels to watch. Most of the noblemen were near Meridas, so Merin instead found himself watching a group of older monks. Like many monks who followed the Order of Khonra, they wore long tan skirts and loose shirts instead of traditional robes. They fought with swords, though they weren’t necessarily noblemen—monks were considered to have neither class nor gender, and they could practice any art they wished, whether it be painting or dueling.

  The monks were very good. They fought with wooden practice swords, and their motions wer
e fluid. Rhythmic. Watching their smooth, controlled motions seemed to calm a bit of the chaos in Merin’s recent life.

  After a few moments, one of the monks noticed him watching. The man paused, regarding Merin with the eyes of a warrior. “Shouldn’t you be practicing with the other lords, traveler?”

  Merin shrugged. “I don’t really fit in with them, holy one.”

  “Your clothing says that you should,” the monk said, nodding to Merin’s fine seasilk outfit.

  Merin grimaced.

  The monk raised an eyebrow questioningly. He was an older man, perhaps the same age as Merin’s father, and had a strong build beneath his monk’s clothing. He was almost completely bald, save for a bit of hair on the sides of his head, and even that was beginning to grey.

  “It’s nothing, holy one,” Merin said. “I’m just a little bit tired of hearing about clothing.”

  “Maybe this will take your mind off of it,” the monk said, tossing him a practice sword. “And don’t call me ‘holy one.’”

  Merin caught the sword, looking down at it blankly. Then he yelped in surprise, dropping his Shardblade and raising the practice sword awkwardly as the monk stepped forward in a dueling stance. Merin wasn’t certain how to respond—all of his training in the army had focused on working within his squad, using his shield to protect his companions and his spear to harry the opponent. He’d rarely been forced to fight solitarily.

  The monk came in with a few testing swings, and Merin tried his best to mimic the man’s stance. He knew enough not to engage the first few blows—they were meant to throw Merin off-balance and leave him open for a strike. He retreated across the cool sand, shuffling backward and trying not to fall for the monk’s feints. Even still, the man’s first serious strike took Merin completely by surprise. The blow took Merin on the shoulder—it was delivered lightly, but it stung anyway.

  “Your instincts are good,” the monk said, returning to his stance. “But your swordsmanship is atrocious.”

  “That’s kind of why I’m here,” Merin said, trying another stance. This time he managed to dodge the first blow, though the backhand caught him on the thigh. He grunted in pain.

  “Your Blade is unbonded,” the monk said. “And you resist moving to the sides, as if you expect there to be someone standing beside you. You were a spearman?”

  “Yes,” Merin said.

  The monk stepped back, lowering his blade and resting the tip in the sand. “You must have done something incredibly brave to earn yourself a Blade, little spearman.”

  “Either that, or I was just lucky,” Merin replied.

  The monk smiled, then nodded toward the center of the courtyard. “Your friend is looking for you.”

  Merin turned to see Aredor waving for him. Merin nodded thankfully to the monk and returned the practice sword, then picked up his Shardblade and jogged across the sands toward Aredor. Standing with Dalenar’s son was a group of elderly, important-looking monks.

  “Merin,” Aredor began, “these are the monastery masters. Each of them is an expert at several dueling forms, and they’ll be able to train you in the one that fits you best. Masters Bendahkha and Lhanan are currently accepting new students. You can train with either one of them, though you’ll need to pay the standard hundred-ishmark tribute to the monastery out of your monthly stipend.”

  Merin regarded the two monks Aredor had indicated. Both looked very distinguished, almost uncomfortably so. They regarded Merin with the lofty expressions of men who had spent their entire lives practicing their art, and who had risen to the highest of their talents. They stood like kings in their monasteries—not condescending, but daunting nonetheless.

  Merin glanced to the side, a sudden impression taking him. “Holy ones, I am honored by your offer, but I feel a little overwhelmed. Could you tell me, is the monk I just sparred with accepting students at the moment?”

  The masters frowned. “You mean Vasher?” one of them asked. “Why do you wish to train with him?”

  “I . . . I’m not certain,” Merin confessed.

  One of the masters waved for a younger monk and sent him running off toward Vasher’s group. As he did so, Aredor pulled Merin aside with a concerned face.

  “What are you doing?” Aredor asked quietly.

  “Those masters make me uncomfortable, Aredor,” Merin said.

  Aredor rolled his eyes. “You’re going to have to get over that, Merin. You’re a lord now.”

  “I’m trying,” Merin replied. “But . . .”

  “The man you sent for isn’t even a proper monk,” Aredor said. “He’s Oathgiven, not Birthgiven. He joined the monastery by choice, rather than being given by his parents before the age of his Charan. He won’t be a dueling master—he probably just came here by happenstance.”

  “Aredor,” Merin said frankly, “I came here by happenstance.”

  Aredor just sighed as the young monk approached, the man Merin had spared with—Vasher—following behind. “What is this about, masters?” Vasher asked in a calm voice.

  “This child wishes you to be his master,” the senior master said, waving toward Merin. “He wishes to know if you are taking any students.”

  Vasher snorted. “You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you, little spearman?”

  Merin just shrugged.

  “Very well,” Vasher said. “If he is willing to do what I say, I’ll train him.”

  Aredor groaned quietly, but the masters just nodded and began walking away. Vasher turned back toward the corner of the monastery, where the monks he had been sparring with still practiced. Uncertain what else to do, Merin tagged along behind. Once they reached the place he had dueled before, Merin set aside his Shardblade and reached for a practice sword.

  Vasher reached out a foot and placed it on the sword just as Merin began to lift it. “No,” he said.

  Merin rose uncertainly, watching as Vasher walked over to the weapons pile and selected an object. He returned with a large, thick-hafted horsekiller arrow, and handed it to Merin.

  “An arrow?” Merin asked slowly.

  “A little spear,” Vasher said. “For a little spearman. I don’t want you thinking you are a duelist—you haven’t earned a practice sword yet.”

  “You let me fight with one before, master,” Merin protested.

  “That was before you were my student,” Vasher informed. “And don’t call me ‘master.’ My name is Vasher. From this moment on and until I declare your training complete, you are not to duel with anyone unless I give you permission. You may not swing a sword—even that Shardblade of yours—unless it is under my direction. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” Merin snapped, spearman training returning.

  “And don’t call me ‘sir’ either,” Vasher said with a bitter scowl. “You’re a lord, not a footman. Follow my rules if you wish, learn from me as you wish, and leave as you wish. I care not.”

  “Okay . . .” Merin said, eyeing the arrow with skepticism.

  “Good. Now watch.” Vasher turned, falling into a stance and raising his sword. He stood there for a moment, then turned expectant eyes on Merin.

  Merin quickly mimicked Vasher’s stance. The monk walked over to him, nudging Merin’s foot forward a few inches, correcting his posture, and showing him how to grip the arrow.

  “Good,” Vasher said. “How high can you count?”

  “Uh, I don’t know,” Merin confessed, holding still in the stance. “As high as I want, I suppose.”

  “Good,” Vasher said, turning and walking back toward his dueling partner. “Hold that stance for a thousand heartbeats. When you’re done, let me know, and we’ll do another.”

  Merin frowned, but the monk said nothing further. A bead of sweat rolled down Merin’s cheek in the sunlight. What have I gotten myself into? he wondered, sighing internally.

  chapter 13

  Taln 3

  Taln awoke from a dream of agony and screams. Two things occurred to him immediately—fi
rst, as an Elin, he should not need to sleep. Second, as an Elin, he definitely shouldn’t dream.

  He frowned, sitting up. The last few days were a blur in his mind. He had come to Ral Eram. He remembered his arrival, and his . . . bursting in on some sort of feast or party. Beyond that . . .

  The Sign hadn’t worked. Taln hissed in surprise, thrusting forward his hand, trying to manifest the nahel bond within him. Nothing happened. What of his other powers?

  He analyzed his surroundings with a quick glance. He was in a long, rectangular chamber set with beds along both walls. The room was set with stone pillars, and the windows were shaped with triangular peaks. In fact, the architecture held a great number of angles and lines—he was probably in the Aleth section of the city?

  Many of the beds were occupied with the lame and the sick, and the men tending them wore undyed tan robes, sewn with the glyph ila—the mark of the priesthood. There were two doors leading out of the room, and the windows provided an alternative exit—they looked wide enough to be broken with relative ease. A table would probably do it.

  There was a small chest beside his bed—a chest with amber knobs. He reached out, blessing his fortune. He had the Sourcestone of Stonewarding. He touched the amber, seeking to draw upon its power.

  Again, nothing happened. Taln withdrew his fingers, frowning. Something was very, very wrong.

  Why won’t my Stonewarding work? he thought with frustration. And the Sign. I need information.

  He looked up, scanning the room again. His mind was far less fuzzy than it had been—images, places, and thoughts were all becoming more clear. There were only two monasteries in the Aleth section of Ral Eram—unless new ones had been constructed—Lighthome and Mercyhome, of which Lighthome was a female monastery.