The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  Jek pulled back into the shadows, thinking. The statue could only represent one figure—Nale Elin, Herald of Justice. He was the one Jek’s people called Halanatan, Stoneborn of Blood Opal. Jek had always avoided the Elinrah temples. The heathens’ common-day perversions were bad enough; he hadn’t any desire to know what the clandestine New Religions did with the sacred stories of the Ten Stoneborn.

  Yet, if Ahven was associated with the Church of Nale, it would explain much. Of all the Elinrah cults, the Church of Nale was one of the most secretive yet most powerful. Jek could finally stop wondering how Ahven could act so innocently impotent, yet have such good information.

  Jek dropped from the rooftop into the alley beside. He could not wait. If Ahven was truly inside the Elinrah temple, then the king would probably not remain there for long. Ahven’s smartest course of action was probably flight—and if the king escaped, it could take Jek months to track him down. Jek stepped into the light, and adopted the air of urgency he had seen in the postures of so many this night. Hopefully, if someone saw him, they would think him simply another attendant, rushing to warn his master’s allies of the king’s disappearance.

  He quickly approached the Elinrah temple. He kept his head bowed, partially not to draw attention, and partially so he wouldn’t have to look up at the paganized image of Nale Elin. How little the heathens understood. Could they not see that the Stoneborn were holy? That their images should not be crafted into any substance that was not stone? Even worse, Jek knew of the Kanarans preference for using the Sacred Arts. The statue probably hadn’t been of bronze when it was first sculpted. For some reason, the use of sacred powers in combination with the creation of a desecrated icon was even worse than most paganisms.

  The temple’s broad gates were not open, but the soldier had entered through a secondary, smaller door. Jek approached this, trying to decide how far he would go to discover the king’s location. These men might be Ahven’s allies—killing them would be unwise. However, there was also the possibility that they had the Idiot King held captive, and that the soldier Jek had trailed was a traitor.

  The small door opened as Jek approached, revealing a darkened hallway beyond. Two men stood in deep blue cloaks—not black, for that was reserved for Awakeners. The men had their hoods drawn after the manner of those trying to appear secretive and mysterious.

  “We were told that you might come,” one of them said in a quiet voice. “You may enter, man of Shinavar. Realize, however, the privilege given you. Many wait years before being allowed admittance to the home of the sacred brotherhood.”

  Jek kept his tongue, wondering if these men understood just how foolish they appeared. If they wished to be secretive, they should have studied the Shin Clans of the Blade—clans such as the one Jek had once belonged to. A Shin clan would never have built a massive building in the middle of the city to proclaim how enigmatic it was. Clans of the Blade were unseen, unheard, but deadly.

  The hallway inside was crafted completely of bronze. Jek stepped onto the metal floor with relief—it was only a short removal from the stone, but it was a welcome one. One of the cloaked figures led him through cramped bronze corridors that twisted around in a spiral, eventually leading him to a doorway encrusted with various gemstones. The only illumination came from a candle held by Jek’s guide.

  The man pushed open the door, and Jek was pleased to see the Idiot King inside. Ahven wore no robe. In fact, he wore clothing far less extravagant than normal—seasilks after the noble cut, but unladen by gemstones or jewelry. He wore a deep red cloak with the hood pulled back. The room felt large compared to the tiny hallways, though it was probably only about fifteen feet square. It was illuminated by ten glowing braziers, which cast a rubicon glow across the metallic walls.

  Cloaked brotherhood members knelt along the walls. Ahven, however, stood, looking toward four bundles of cloth that lay on a raised dais at the back of the room. They were children, Jek realized, cloaked almost completely in dark swaths of seasilk. The youngest was perhaps ten years old, the eldest a girl that might have been in her late teens.

  The children sat with their hands forward, trails of sand streaming from clenched fists onto the ground in front of them. Their eyes watched the falling sand. The entire dais, Jek realized, was crafted from a black stone.

  Onyx.

  No! Jek thought with shock. That isn’t possible. He hissed quietly in surprise, stepping into the room, studying the children’s faces and skin. No, they were not Shin. They were Kanaran. But . . . it was impossible.

  “You must find the girl,” one of the children whispered, not looking up from his streaming sand—not even moving, save to eventually reach over to the pot of sand beside him to grab another handful.

  “I know where she is,” Ahven said, confident.

  “You will lose her,” the child said. “You will have to find her again.”

  “Beware of the Windrunner,” the eldest of them said. “I see him. He will not know you, but he could destroy you.”

  “Who is he?” Ahven demanded.

  The girl shook her head. “I see . . . patterns. Too many patterns. All of them point toward danger. You must move quickly, Idiot King. Something has gone wrong in the world. It must have a leader. Conqueror, savior, or tyrant—it matters not. There must be unity.”

  “Now is a time for boldness,” the boy who had spoken before agreed. “I see . . . chaos in the patterns. Our protectors have fallen. Someone must make ten kingdoms into one.”

  The last handful of sand dropped, and the children did not reach for more. Ahven nodded his head slightly—almost a bow—then turned toward Jek. “Come,” he said, striding from the room.

  Jek wasn’t quick to follow. He stared at the children, and at the sand, and at the onyx. A fabrication, he told himself. They speak nonsense and imitate the patterns of the past. Somehow, he couldn’t quite convince himself.

  “Assassin,” Ahven snapped. “Come.”

  Jek turned and followed. “Those were Holetatinal!” he said.

  Ahven raised an eyebrow. “They didn’t seem Shin to me, assassin,” he said.

  “Onyxseers,” Jek said, his voice—though quiet—echoing in the metal hallway. “You realize they must be fake. There haven’t been Onyxseers in Kanar since the Ninth Epoch.”

  “Perhaps,” Ahven said.

  “They tell you what you want to hear,” Jek insisted. “They’re obviously mimicking the actions of Shin Stone Shamans.”

  Ahven didn’t respond, so Jek tried another tactic. “You should escape,” he said. “Talshekh is guarded by Shin clansmen. I could try to assassinate him, but I would probably fail. Even if I kill him, another will try to take your throne.”

  Ahven shook his head. “You’re not going to kill Talshekh,” he said. “Come.”

  “What are you going to do?” Jek demanded as two robed forms opened the doors before them, letting Ahven out onto the night street.

  “You heard the seers,” Ahven said. “It is time for boldness.”

  Lord Talshekh looked slightly less impressive without his Shardplate. He was still massive, but much of that mass was contained in an ample gut and stocky legs. Despite the girth, he was well-muscled—but his were the muscles of an aging man whose battles had mostly passed.

  He looked a little disheveled—he had probably taken Ahven’s disappearance as a sign that the king had fled. He certainly hadn’t expected his enemy to stride into the middle of his camp, accompanied by nothing more than a couple of guards and a solitary Shin assassin.

  News of the arrival, however, brought crowds. Jek noted a large group of Vedenel noblemen gathering on one side of the camp, their eyes wide with pleasured surprise. Perhaps they had come pleading for their lives or to assure Talshekh that their political enemies had been the ones who aided in Ahven’s disappearance.

  Ahven stood quietly in the night, torches whispering before gusts of wind. What did he expect? That Talshekh would accept his surrender? Ahven held the
throne. Talshekh could not let such a threat to his leader-ship live.

  Indeed, as soon as Talshekh stepped from his tent and saw Ahven, the Davar lord smiled deeply and summoned his Shardblade. Those in attendance would witness the murder, but they would not contradict Talshekh’s inevitable declaration that they had released the country from incompetent rule—that he had performed his act in the name of justice, rather than ambition.

  Talshekh stepped forward and swung his Blade at the Idiot King’s head. Ahven ducked, nearly falling to the ground as he whipped back his cloak and pulled a sword from beneath its depths. Ahven spun behind the surprised Talshekh.

  The idiot king was trained as a warrior.

  He wasn’t masterful—Jek could see that much. Neither was he incompetent. However, no great amount of skill was required to dodge Talshekh’s arrogant strike. Nor was mastery necessary to spin behind the large man as Ahven did, his own Shardblade raised high over his head.

  Ahven sheared Talshekh’s head in half with a single stroke. Ahven had probably meant to aim for the neck, but he hit somewhere right below the ear instead. It didn’t matter—the Blade cut through the large Davar nobleman’s head with ease.

  Talshekh’s corpse slumped to the ground. The crowd’s eyes lingered on it, stunned.

  Of course Ahven has a Shardblade, Jek realized. He’s king. They couldn’t have kept one from him, idiot or not. The Blade is a sign of nobility.

  Ahven stood before the crowd, bloodied sword held in firmly in a post-swing posture. “Last night, the Almighty appeared to me in a dream,” he said loudly. It took Jek a moment to realize what was wrong—Ahven’s accent was gone. He sounded normal. “He said He would heal me of my infirm mind, for the Three Houses needed a leader. Talshekh, obviously, was not that leader.”

  Then Ahven stood up straight and dismissed his Blade. The Idiot King strode forward, stepping over Talshekh’s body, and walked toward the open city gates. Jek thought that someone might challenge him, but no one did.

  Jek hurried after Ahven, glancing back with apprehension. The collected noblemen were still staring at the corpse.

  “Now what?” Jek asked, turning back to Ahven.

  “Now,” Ahven said with a smile, “we wait for them to figure it out. I have another task for you.”

  “Someone you need dead?”

  “No,” Ahven replied. “Someone I need . . . retrieved.”

  chapter 27

  Merin 6

  “Let the duels begin!”

  Merin forced his cheers to sound as enthusiastic as those of the other men. Indeed, he couldn’t help but absorb the feast hall’s general feeling of levity. Servants burst from the side doors, bringing forth steaming dishes. Men around him rested their fine-clothed arms on the tables and began to chat with enthusiasm, speculating on the evening’s matches.

  Merin, sitting amidst it all, found the experience almost surreal. Part of him was still the son of a Sixth Citizen farmer. That part didn’t belong in a position of respect, between Dalenar’s two sons at a table with an enviable view of the second dueling ring. Yet, that had somehow become his place. Another part of Merin, a part growing ever stronger, found the men around him increasingly familiar, the spicy food increasingly delicious, and the seasilk clothing increasingly natural. The excitement was almost enough to make him forget about his own inability to participate in the competition.

  There will be other duels. Other competitions. Don’t worry yourself, lad. You shall see enough of fighting in your life. They were Dalenar’s words, spoken to him when Aredor had complained about Vasher’s restriction.

  Aredor was still noticeably upset. Though he joked with the young men at the table, every time he saw Merin’s yet-unbonded Shardblade sitting beside his chair, his lips downturned slightly. He had obviously been looking forward to this event as an opportunity to reveal his young protégé to the court at large. Despite his relative open-mindedness, Aredor was still a nobleman, and did not like having his plans diverted by the whims of a lowborn monk.

  Merin glanced toward the king’s table, looking past scurrying servants, boisterous noblemen, and nervous duel participants. The king’s table sat before the primary dueling ring, the one where the main competition for Shardblades would take place. Aredor and Renarin had chosen a table near the right-hand ring instead, claiming that duels between Shardbearers were more interesting. The victors in these duels would earn not only honor, but a fair opportunity of gaining lordship of a city in the newly-conquered lands of Aleth-Prallah.

  At the king’s table, Lord Dalenar’s austere face looked worried, even more so than usual. The King’s demotion of Lord Jezenrosh had obviously unsettled Dalenar—apparently, removing the title of Parshen from a man was an irregular move. Yet, the rest of the crowd seemed to have accepted the decision—Jezenrosh hadn’t been seen in court for a long time, and it was obvious he wasn’t fulfilling his duties as Parshen. Even Aredor seemed to have gotten over the announcement, though he had hissed in anger when Elhokar first made it.

  Dalenar obviously hadn’t moved on so easily. Merin tried to imagine Lord Dalenar as people had described him in his youth—outgoing, even rowdy, with a loud voice and a love of fighting. Merin shook his head—he couldn’t picture such a thing. Merin had known only one Dalenar. Stern, but kind. Dutiful and reserved. He sat with a quiet sense of decorum as the men around him—including the king—made rancor. This is the type of nobleman I would be.

  Merin turned his attention back to the ring before his table, where the first contestants were preparing to duel. Merin heard cheers from behind as the other matches began, but he was glad for Aredor’s choice of tables. He had never seen Shardbearers duel up close, and Vasher had instructed him to be observant of the forms and styles used.

  Their ring was by far the largest of the three, and the tables were set back from its perimeter. Both contestants wore Shardplate—either their own or borrowed. The armors were more colorful than Merin’s; he had been forced to spend most of his monthly stipend on clothing and other requirements of class. It would be some time before he could afford to have the armorers accent his Plate with designs, paints, or silks.

  The contestants raised Shardblades—the sign that both had summoned their weapons—and the match began. The first one to score two hits in the same general location would be declared the winner.

  The two men clinked forward, obviously well-accustomed to moving in Shardplate. One man wore plate that had been painted a ruddy brown, and his Blade was a wide-bladed weapon, thicker at the top than at the base, almost like a large, intricate cleaver. The other man’s weapon was thinner than most, his armor a light—almost imperceptible—green. Merin watched with interest as they made their first tentative strikes, judging one another.

  “When are you up?” Renarin asked, leaning forward to look past Merin at his brother.

  “Eighteenth,” Aredor replied. “I’m dueling Tiren of Fardust.”

  The crowd cheered as the man with the thin sword scored a direct thrust against his opponent’s chest. “I’ve never seen a Shardblade meant for stabbing before,” Merin noted.

  “There aren’t many of them,” Aredor replied. “Most of the dueling forms discourage thrusting, and it’s against Protocol to attack the face.”

  “Why?” Merin asked as the two Shardbearers moved back to the edges of the ring to begin the second point.

  Aredor shrugged. “It’s always been that way, ever since the forms were developed, back during the days of the Epoch Kingdoms. There was probably a reason—people didn’t use spears or arrows very often back then either.”

  The second point ended quickly, as the red-armored Shardbearer used his greater size to push his opponent nearly to the edge of the ring, eventually striking a loud blow against the side of the man’s head. Even with dulled Blades, the blow sounded painful, but the green-armored man raised a hand, indicating he could continue.

  As they prepared for the third point, Merin turned his attention to
the food. Back in Stonemount, he had been accustomed to simple inavah cakes and soup, with the occasional splurge of pork—good, robust food, as his mother had always called it. The lords, however, could never do anything with simplicity. Even after two months in Kholinar, Merin was barely accustomed to the spices. He always forced himself to eat them, however—even when he wasn’t dining at evening meal with Lord Dalenar and his sons. He needed to learn how to be like the others.

  So, he dished himself several large slices of glazed pork, and then carved off a chunk and downed it. The taste was amazing, but the heat of the spices followed immediately, and Merin reached for his flagon of wine, gulping it down.

  Aredor chuckled at Merin’s red face. “Go easy on that,” he said, nodding to the gold flagon. “Remember, you only get three cups.”

  Merin nodded. It was Lord Dalenar’s restriction—The Way of Kings forbid drunkenness of the nobility, a prohibition most of the other lords seemed to ignore. Dalenar had ordered all members of his house to drink no more than three flagons. For Dalenar, that was almost gluttonous—at Kholinar dinners, they were allowed only one.

  Merin sat the flagon down, barely able to taste the wine’s sweet flavor over the spices. He had never had alcohol before leaving Stonemount, but the other spearmen had made certain to rectify that oversight as soon as they discovered it. Those were not nights he would miss with any great sense of loss—he had trouble remembering them, anyway.

  The bout ended with the green-armored knight making good on his first strike, sweeping his opponent’s feet out from beneath him and scoring another hit to the man’s chest. The onlooking men cheered enthusiastically; the women smiled in their controlled way. The next bout began almost immediately.

  As the evening progressed, Merin watched the duels with fascination. Though he was growing more and more accustomed to Shardplate and its quirks, it still amazed him that men could move so fluidly within its confines. Those who were well-trained were able to perform some extraordinary feats for the crowd, jumping nearly half the length of the thirty-foot ring, swinging their Blades with such power that they hummed in the air, and smashing each other’s armor with such force that even the Shardplate showed some dents from the blows.