The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  She knocked for her bearers to set down the litter, then climbed out into the crowd. Despite her shorter height, she could still see the madman’s form standing upon his rock.

  “Come on,” Shinri said, stepping forward. Jasnah’s four guards moved in around her, making a path through the crowd. She approached the madman’s rock apprehensively, and she had to admit that having two Shardbearers with her was a nice comfort. The madman noticed her approach, but did not stop his yelling.

  Shinri paused a short distance from his rock. Merin and Aredor were tense—they likely remembered how this man had acted at the feast, when his eyes and actions had been so wild. Yet he had seemed so peaceful when she had seen him in the library.

  But, that’s what madness is, isn’t it? Unpredictability.

  Aredor nodded to the soldiers. Despite his leisurely attitude, he was well known for his dueling ability, and Jasnah had spoken of his effectiveness on the battlefield. He turned toward Shinri, speaking in a low voice. “I can take care of this if you wish, Shinri.”

  “No,” Shinri said. “I want to speak to him first. Please, stay here.” She took a few hesitant steps forward, stopping just before the rock. Merin moved to accompany her, but Aredor laid a hand on his shoulder, allowing Shinri the space she wished to accomplish her task.

  Assuming I can get his attention. It turned out that she didn’t need to. Once the madman finished his latest round of apocalyptic warnings, he turned toward her, smiled, and seated himself.

  Shocked at the sudden change in his demeanor, Shinri stood quietly for a moment.

  “I recognize you,” the madman said, reaching for a water pouch and wiping the sweat from his brow. “You were with the Lady Jasnah Kholin the other day, in the library.”

  “I’m her ward,” Shinri explained.

  “Ah,” the madman said with a nod. “Who are the swords behind you?”

  Shinri glanced backward, to where Aredor and Merin watched uncertainly. “Lords Aredor and Merin Kholin,” Shinri explained.

  “Kholin?” he noted. “Brothers to the king?”

  “No,” Shinri said. “Cousins—or, at least, Aredor is. Merin was granted his surname by title.”

  The madman nodded. He was so . . . well-exercised for a lunatic. His body was muscled and brawny enough to make both Dalenar and Merin look inferior by comparison; had he been a soldier before madness took him, perhaps?

  “They look as if they’re certain I’ll attack you at any moment,” the madman said with amusement. “Though, I suppose after my display the other day, they have a right to be hesitant.”

  Shinri nodded, feeling foolish. How did one speak to a man who now acted so normally, yet who had been ranting insanely just moments ago? “It seems that . . .” It seems that what? That you’re still insane? “It seems that you have decided to try a different tactic.”

  The madman snorted quietly, taking another swig from the water-bag. “I thought I’d give it a try. I haven’t ever really had to do it this way before—most of the time, people just believe me when I tell them who I am. Of course, most of those times came during the days of the Epoch Kingdoms, when our Returns were expected.” He looked over the crowd, eyes solemn. “This method isn’t working very well, I’m afraid. I seem to recall that streetside preaching is what the prophets always do in the ballads. I’ve never been much of an orator, though. I think I’m enhancing my reputation for madness more than I am my reputation as a Herald.”

  Shinri smiled. “Lady Jasnah sent me to ask you to stop.”

  “She didn’t come herself,” he noted. “Next time perhaps I’ll have to find something that makes a bit more of a disturbance.”

  Shinri paused, studying the madman’s eyes. So lucid, she thought again. “You wanted her to come. You did this on purpose.”

  “Of course I did it on purpose,” the madman said with a smile. “You think a man stands himself on a rock and screams at passersby by accident? These people need to be warned of what is coming. The probability of your Lady Jasnah visiting sometime during my speech was a side-benefit.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I am led to understand that I am under her care,” the madman explained. “And that means she is my strongest connection to the nobility. Unfortunately, the palace guards are watching for me now, since I slipped by and got into your library, and won’t let me in to seek her out. That means I need to coax her out to see me. You don’t know if she’s managed to get my sword back for me, do you?”

  I doubt she’s given it a passing thought. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  The madman nodded. “Why don’t you give her a message for me? I’ll promise to stop my preaching here in the market if she’ll tell the guards to let me pass.”

  “I doubt she’ll do that,” Shinri said immediately. “But if you wish to visit her, we might be able to arrange an escort to bring you to her audience chamber. Stop making a disturbance—you said it wasn’t very effective anyway—and I’ll send a messenger to you once I get specifics from Lady Jasnah.”

  The madman smiled. “She’s trained you well,” he noted. “You’re very young to understand how to make a promise without giving anything up.”

  Jasnah would have been disappointed to see Shinri blush so openly.

  “You have an accent,” the madman noted. “Not from Alethkar, I assume?”

  “I come from Jah Keved,” she said.

  “The same as the king’s wife,” the madman said. “A relative of yours?”

  “No,” Shinri said. “We’re of different houses, but we came here as part of the same treaty.”

  The madman nodded. “You’re what . . . fifteen?”

  “Seventeen,” Shinri snapped.

  “Forgive me. It’s been a very, very long time. What do you think of your mistress? I’ve heard much said of her, but nothing from one that actually knows her.”

  “She is a brilliant politician and a skillful teacher,” Shinri said simply, withdrawing slightly. She had already answered far too many of his questions.

  “Ah, and now you look more like her,” he said cryptically. “She is a strange woman, this Lady Jasnah. Everyone agrees on that fact. As you’ve noted, my understanding of people’s ages has been thrown off a bit by the millennia; however, isn’t it thought odd that she remains unmarried at her age?”

  Unmarried. The word brought back unconscious thoughts of Tethren. She dismissed them immediately, but not quickly enough, for she found the madman regarding her with discerning eyes.

  “What?” he asked. “You have someone of your own, young Veden ward of the Lady Jasnah? Someone who brings you pain?”

  “It is unimportant,” Shinri said coldly.

  “I see,” the madman responded. “He left you? Or is it something worse?”

  “Why should I discuss such things with you?” she said.

  “You probably shouldn’t,” he admitted. “Madmen are terrible at keeping secrets.” He winked at her, drinking the rest of his water with a deep swig.

  Shinri paused. “You’re not what I expected,” she finally admitted.

  The madman smiled. “You know, people tend to tell me that a lot—no matter what Epoch it happens to be. But discussing my history would have little point, since you will probably take it all to be the ramblings of a madman. What of you? Who is Shinri of the House Davar?”

  Instantly suspicious, Shinri studied his honest eyes, trying to delve his intent. “Shinri Davar is a woman of little consequence,” she said. “A simple messenger.”

  “The ward to the king’s sister can hardly be a person of little consequence,” the madman replied. “And a simple messenger would not be granted the protection of two Shardbearers.”

  You may be insane, madman, Shinri thought, but you’re still clever. Suddenly the conversation’s direction made sense. He had said that his only connection to the court was Lady Jasnah, but he was trying to expand his options.

  “All right,” she admitted. “I’m of more conseq
uence than some. However, important connections or not, I’m far too irrelevant to get your sword back for you.”

  Taln snorted. “Did your mistress teach you to be so suspicious, or does it just come naturally to modern Rosharan women?”

  “Deny that your entire point in speaking to me is to get your sword back,” Shinri said.

  The madman shrugged affably. “One can never have too many friends in any noble court, Lady Shinri Davar,” he said. “Even mildly irrelevant ones.”

  Shinri stared him a challenge. His eyes, however, were just so honest—and strangely innocent. That proves your insanity, madman. No man who claims to be thousands of years old could possibly seem so innocent.

  “I promise not to ask you to get my sword for me,” the madman offered. “I’m still curious about you, however. There is so much I do not know, Lady Shinri. What treaty is it that brought you to be Lady Jasnah’s ward? Why do people speak of your mistress with such awe and such derision at the same time? Who is this woman you serve, and why does her soul seem so tired?”

  Why, it’s not me at all, Shinri realized, and almost laughed to herself in startlement. It’s Jasnah you are interested in. Were demigods allowed to get that look in their eyes when they spoke of a woman? Shinri suspected not.

  She covered her smile—he probably didn’t even realize it himself. But, self-aware or not, she could only bid him one bit of mental advice. Good luck, madman. Men of sounder mind than you have been crushed by that particular stone.

  “It is not my place to speak of my mistress, citizen,” she said. “Etiquette forbids.”

  “Then what of the treaty you mentioned?” he prodded.

  “It was designed by Lady Jasnah,” Shinri explained. “Three years ago, just after the old king’s death. In order to stabilize her brother’s throne, she negotiated a treaty with Jah Keved—the kingdom directly to the south.”

  “Formerly Vedenar,” the madman said. “During the last Epoch, there was a . . . friendly rivalry between Vedenar and Alethkar.”

  “Hmm,” Shinri noted. “What a pleasantly descriptive understatement. Anyway, Lady Jasnah’s treaty standardized the southern border, gave favored trading status to Jah Keved, and brought Lady Nanavah Veden north to be the king’s wife. She’s sister to King Ahven of Jah Keved, you know. I was delivered to Alethkar. In one move, two of the Great Houses were tied to the Aleth royal line.”

  “And the third?” the madman asked.

  “Rienar?” Shinri asked. “It was secured by arranging a marriage treaty between myself and . . .” She paused, realizing what she was saying. Between myself and a prince of the Reinar line. Tethren Reinar.

  The madman must have noted the sadness in her eyes. “You don’t approve of the union?” he guessed.

  Give him nothing, Lady Jasnah’s training whispered in her mind. “Of course I approved,” Shinri said calmly. “Tethren Rienar was an honorable and kindly man, and a very powerful man.”

  “Was?” the madman asked.

  Shinri gritted her teeth in annoyance at the mistake. It wasn’t like you could keep it from him, she told herself. Tethren’s death is now commonly announced. The madman could ask anyone with half an eye for politics and get the truth.

  “Prince Tethren’s ship sank in a highstorm on its way to Thalenah several weeks before,” she explained in her political voice.

  The madman cocked his head. “Does that happen often?” he asked. “Don’t you have charts to predict the coming of the storms?”

  “We have stormkeepers,” Shinri said. “They keep track of such things.”

  “Then wouldn’t the ship have gotten to shelter before the storm hit?” he asked. “During previous Epochs men were wise enough to seek port when a strong highstorm was near.”

  You think I haven’t considered that? she thought. But . . . she hadn’t. It was something Jasnah would have been suspicious of immediately, but Shinri hadn’t given the oddity a second thought. It was definitely strange for a common mercantile convoy to let itself be trapped out during a highstorm. Usually, summer sailing was arranged so that one could be in port when the more furious highstorms hit. Only a trip to Thalenah or Shinavar would require leaving the coast, and both destinations could easily be reached between storms. For a ship to risk an open-ocean storm, rather than waiting a few days for an open window . . . its leader would have to be foolish.

  Or in a very great hurry.

  “I’m sorry,” the madman said. “The topic must bring you pain. It’s just that there is so much to learn—this time even more than the others, since the Epoch Kingdoms have fallen. What are these stormkeepers you mention? Mystics?”

  “Hardly,” Shinri said with a snort, glad to leave the topic of Tethren’s death. “They are scientists, trained in Thalenah at the New House.”

  “The New House?”

  “The House of Truths, in Prallah, was . . . lost during the Oathshard wars,” Shinri explained. “The stormkeepers, however, trace their lines back to scholars who were serving in royal courts when their homeland was razed. They formed the New House to replace their old institution, moving it to Thalenah—which was the most stable kingdom during the Oathshard days. You should ask Lady Jasnah if you want to know more—she studied in Thalenah when she was younger.”

  Of course, she added, so did I. I just didn’t bring much back from the experience . . . except maybe the enmity of a couple tensets of stormkeepers.

  “I see,” the madman said. He stood, bowing slightly to her. “I’ll take your offer then, Lady Shinri. I promise to stop preaching here, and you will get me in to see your mistress. I really need to speak with the Lady Jasnah again; she struck me as an impressive woman when we spoke.”

  Shinri smiled. Impressive? she thought. What a pleasantly descriptive understatement.

  chapter 17

  Merin 4

  Merin stood perched on the side of the stone wall, looking down. Kholinar’s walls were lofty and thick. Their sides smoothed by the drippings of winter storms, the wall’s blocks seemed to have melded together—almost as if the structure were formed of a single, massive stone. The rock was dark, the color of crom buildup and winter lichens—similar to the buildings of Merin’s home village. Unlike many of Kholinar’s buildings, the walls could not be scrubbed clean or whitewashed. However, the unrefined look felt right—it made the walls seem more like a natural force than a man-made barrier.

  Merin took a breath, then jumped off the side.

  He had chosen a lower section of the wall—one of the shorter side bastions that ran parallel to the main structure. Even still, it was a daunting distance to the ground, thirty or more feet. Merin plummeted like a boulder. He tried to keep his eyes open as he fell, watching the ground approach. His feet slammed against it, the weight of his Shardplate throwing up chips of broken stone. He stumbled slightly, falling back against the wall and steadying himself.

  He took a couple of deep breaths. Even after several tenset repetitions, jumping off the wall still unnerved him. Experience had proven that the fall would not hurt—though the impact shook a little, it was manageable. Still, there was something unsettling about falling from such a height.

  Merin sighed, heaving himself away from the wall’s support to begin jogging back up the wall’s steps. Only sixty more to go . . .

  When he reached the top again, he was surprised to see Aredor waiting for him. Dalenar’s heir wore his customary well-tailored outfit, and stood leisurely with his back resting against the battlement. “My older brother once visited Shinavar,” he noted. “He said that there were animals there that could fly—strange, colorful creatures, some as large as a pig. I do not think, however, that they gained the ability through sheer force of repetition.”

  Merin snorted, walking over to his jump-point, looking over the edge. A cool breeze was blowing, though the day was hot. Summer had almost reached The Searing, the forty-day stretch at its center when rain was scarce. The Searing was broken by only a single highstorm at its cen
ter—The Almighty’s Bellow, the most furious storm of the year.

  Merin turned back to Aredor, removing his helmet and wiping his brow. “Vasher told me to jump off the wall a hundred times,” he explained.

  Aredor raised an amused eyebrow. “Ordering you to eat in your armor for a week wasn’t enough for him, eh?”

  “Apparently not,” Merin replied, shivering slightly at the memory of wearing his Shardplate to evening meals at Dalenar’s palace. Visiting lords had given him some very odd looks, but had received no end of mirth from the experience once Aredor filled them in.

  “A hundred times, eh?” Aredor said. “What number are you on?”

  “Forty-one,” Merin said.

  Aredor grimaced. “You’ve been at it for several hours already!”

  “It takes time to get up those steps,” Merin said.

  Aredor just shook his head. Merin could see the amusement in his eyes, however.

  “I know,” Merin grumbled. “I should have chosen one of the masters you picked for me.”

  “Oh, I would never gloat over a friend’s misfortune,” Aredor said.

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’m certain Brother Vasher knows what he’s doing,” Aredor said. “Why, if you keep at it, he might actually let you fight with a sword.”

  Merin snorted, and threw himself off the top of the wall again. The uncoordinated jump, however, flung him off-balance, and he dropped on his side, crashing to the ground in an unceremonious clang.

  With the hard landing, it happened again—just like the first time he had put on the armor, and several times after. The air around Merin changed, becoming viscous to his sight, patterns forming and flowing. The air was still transparent, yet keenly discernible to him—like the waves of heat rising above flames.

  Merin sat, stunned for a moment. The Shardplate had cushioned his fall, leaving him a little dazed—but that was not why he remained motionless. He still had no explanation for why the armor changed his sight—Aredor seemed befuddled, and Renarin said he’d rarely worn Shardplate. However, every time it happened, it lasted briefly. Any motion disturbed the experience, ending the surreal moment.