The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  Still, slight though it was, it gave him an advantage. He watched his opponent’s breath, using it to judge the man’s strikes. Each time the man inhaled, Merin jumped backward, getting out of sword-range. The assassin attacked with increasing frustration, trying to catch Merin. The man’s Shardblade cut slice after slice in the hallway’s walls, shearing lanterns from their perches, but never landing a blow.

  “Coward,” the man hissed, swinging again. Merin ducked away, glancing behind him, checking on Aredor. His friend appeared to have adopted a similar tactic, staying out of range, trying to tempt his opponent into over-extending himself. They couldn’t afford a quick battle—Jezenrosh’s Shardbearers would overpower them.

  Unfortunately, the assassin’s Plate also lent them greater endurance. The battle had only lasted a few minutes, but Merin could already feel his reactions slowing. He was puffing from the exertion and the constant dodging, his arms pained from the occasional blow he had to block.

  The final attack came as a wave. Merin’s enemy plunged suddenly forward, giving little hint of the offense, even through breath. He closed on Merin, swinging repeatedly, forcing Merin to fight rather than dodge. The assassin didn’t pause, keeping Merin off-balance. The offense pushed Merin backward, toward Aredor. Merin managed to block each of the blows until the man lashed out with an unexpected punch. Merin struck instinctually at the opening, hitting the man in the chest, but Shardplate stopped the blow.

  The fist took Merin on the shoulder. The force of the strike tossed him backward, and his Blade tumbled from numbed fingers. The air in the room snapped back to translucence as the glpyhward ripped free, its leather string caught on an edge of the assassin’s gauntlet.

  Merin fell to the floor again, his Shardblade clanging to the marble a short distance away. Aredor looked up at the motion, distracted, and the green Shardbearer thrust with his thin weapon, striking Aredor in the side of the chest. The Blade sliced easily through flesh, sinking into Aredor’s chest up to the hilt and pinning him to the wall behind him.

  The green Shardbearer whipped his sword free, and Aredor slumped to the ground, screaming in pain, a trickle of blood smearing against the wall.

  Merin cried out, rolling to the side and reaching for Aredor. Instead of his friend, however, his eyes focused on something else. The glyphward lay on the marble, a speck of green against the white.

  Merin scrambled for the bit of stone, but he did so with despair—evil or holy, it had done him little good so far. Hopefully, Renarin had warned the king’s guards. Hopefully, they would be able to raise a defense to stop these Shardbearers from killing the king. But it was too late for him.

  Merin grasped the glyphward even as his opponent raised his Blade for the final blow. Merin could see the air around the Blade as it hung, ready to fall. He would watch the air part as the weapon killed him. He heard the wind in his mind, calling him.

  Merin called back. Come to me.

  The glyphward flared in his hand, bursting to light with a bright green flame, searing Merin’s flesh. He cried out in pain, but could not let go.

  The palace shook. The hallway shuddered, as if in pain. And then, Merin heard it—a low moan . . . like the call of an enormous beast. Jezenrosh’s assassins both paused, turning confused eyes toward the far end of the hallway, which was the source of the sound.

  A few scraps of cloth blew into the hallway, followed by a swirl of dust. The moan approached, the stones trembling faster, and faster, and faster. The glyphward continued to burn in Merin’s hand, the agony searing him to the bone, the unnatural green light growing brighter.

  And then it hit. A tempest of air—like an entire highstorm channeled into a single gust—crashed through the confines of the small hallway. It smashed against the four combatants, dark with dust and debris, entire tapestries and rugs carried by its fury. It roared in Merin’s ears, no longer just speaking to his mind, but screaming with the howl of a chained creature finally let free.

  It blew stronger than the fierce summer storms Merin had occasionally been caught in during harvest. It drove grit and sand into his skin, forcing him to curl up against the marble. Above him, his opponent was thrown backward by the force of the wind. Another body crashed to the floor a short distance from Merin—the green Shardbearer, also knocked to the ground. Through the wind, Merin could see the air curling strangely away from the man’s Shardplate—as if the supernatural metal were struggling to protect him, but failing.

  The pain in Merin’s palm flashed, then died. The storm slackened, then calmed, then vanished, leaving bits of string and fluff floating lazily to the ground. Merin groaned, holding his injured hand to his chest and sitting up, dust streaming from his clothing, his shoulder still pulsing with agony from the Plate-enhanced punch. Green dust—all that remained of the glyphward—trickled from his still-closed fist.

  There was a clink from beside him, and Merin turned dazed eyes toward the sound. The green Shardbearer rolled over, shaking his head as he reached for his Blade. The motion ended in a jerk as Ardor thrust a sword through the man’s faceplate.

  Aredor stumbled, holding his side and slumping to his knees beside the man he had killed. “The other one . . .”

  Merin lurched to his feet, forcing himself to ignore the pain of his injured hand and shoulder. The second Shardbearer had been thrown a good distance down the hallway. The man stood with a daze, then looked toward his Blade, which lay on the ground a short ways in front of him, half the distance between himself and Merin.

  Both dashed forward at the same time. Merin reached out as he ran, snatching Aredor’s Blade, which stood upright, sticking from the green Shardbearer’s face. The weapon slipped free easily, though it sat unfamiliarly in Merin’s hand. The grey Shardbearer moved more quickly, Plate enhancing his motions. The man scooped up his Blade, then swung toward Merin with a powerful blow.

  Merin ducked the attack, feeling it slice the air above him, and came up with his own swing—smashing his Blade into the man’s back, directly in the scarred line where Aredor had struck earlier.

  The man jerked in mid-step, pulling Aredor’s Blade from Merin’s grasp. The weapon remained lodged in place, seeping blood at its edges, as the Shardbearer collapsed with a crash of metal against stone.

  Merin slumped to the ground as he heard voices approaching. He could only hope they were on the right side, for he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to face another foe.

  chapter 32

  Jasnah 8

  Jasnah stepped around the corpse of an assassin, waving away the soldier who tried to shield her from the scene of death. She held up her dress, stepping over the pool of blood, and pushed her way into the king’s quarters. A royal captain approached, but Nelshenden cut him off, whispering quietly to the man and sending him away.

  Elhokar sat on his audience throne, leaning forward in thought, his expression dark. He was unwounded—the assassins had reached his outer hallway, but a disturbance raised by Renarin had alerted his guards to the danger in time.

  Nanavah had failed. Jasnah’s eyes thinned as she focused on the queen, sitting on a stool at the king’s side, a hand resting on his arm in mock-​sympathy. Jasnah had been too slow, but Dalenar’s sons had proven themselves true to the honor their father had taught them.

  Meridas stood at the side of the room, speaking with Balenmar and several Shardbearers, displaying a proper look of outrage at the night’s events. She even heard him give a moan of disappointment that he hadn’t arrived in time to help Aredor fight. Balenmar met Jasnah’s eyes with a relieved gaze—he thought that the threat was over. He had been fooled as she nearly had been.

  Elhokar looked up as he noticed Jasnah. “He shall pay for this,” the king said. “I knew Jezenrosh was insubordinate, but I had hoped he would see reason. I should have listened more carefully to Balenmar’s warnings.”

  Jasnah shot a look at Nelshenden, who was still trying to convince the guard captain to leave them alone with the king. He appeared t
o be having little success.

  “Elhokar,” Jasnah said, “we need to talk.”

  The king frowned. “Surely you don’t expect me to ignore an attempt on my life. Jezenrosh’s own Shardbearers tried to kill me tonight.”

  “There is more to this attempt on your life than you know, my king,” Jasnah said. “Dismiss the others—we must speak in private.”

  Elhokar paused, sitting upright in his throne. Eventually, he waved the guard captain toward him and gave the man instructions in a low voice. The captain obviously didn’t like what he heard, but bowed and waved the guards and other nobility to follow him out. The people trailed out, a questioning Balenmar included. Jasnah shot him a reassuring glance.

  “Meridas, you stay,” Elhokar commanded. Meridas nodded, and remained where he was. Nanavah also made no move to leave, and the king made no move to dismiss her.

  Jasnah waited expectantly, her mouth a thin line, but the king met her gaze defiantly. Finally, she walked forward, grabbing Elhokar by the arm. He resisted at first, then sighed and let her pull him over to the side of the room, out of Nanavah’s earshot. The queen watched them with curious eyes, but remained by the throne.

  “Where are Aredor and Renarin?” Jasnah asked quietly, folding her arms as Nelshenden closed the doors, then walked over to keep a wary eye on Meridas.

  “Aredor was wounded,” Elhokar said. “He is in the care of the palace healers. I sent Renarin to Kholinar to speak with his father. Our uncle has grown tired of war—surely you’ve seen it. If Dalenar is going to be persuaded to support me against Jezenrosh, he will need the word of his sons on what happened this night.”

  “My lord . . .” Jasnah said, uncertain where to begin. She eyed Meridas, who lounged against a pillar on the side of the room. What would be the best way to explain . . .

  “Brother,” she said, “I think Meridas might have had something to do with the attack tonight.”

  “What?” Elhokar asked with amusement. “What possible reason could he have for such an act?”

  Jasnah flushed. “I think he and your wife might be . . . seeing each other, Elhokar,” she said. “We need to discuss this in—”

  Elhokar laughed, cutting her off. He glanced toward Nanavah, who was still watching them with a curious expression. “She thinks you and Meridas are lovers,” Elhokar told her in a loud voice.

  The queen chuckled in amusement, and Elhokar turned back to Jasnah. “Really, Jasnah. I don’t have time for your paranoia, especially after Jezenrosh’s assassins.”

  “I don’t think Jezenrosh sent those men tonight,” Jasnah said, too loudly. Nanavah looked back toward them at the sound, then rose to wander toward the two.

  “What?” Elhokar asked with a snort. “You think his Shardbearers acted on their own volition?”

  Jasnah had no choice but to continue. “Those weren’t Jezenrosh’s Shardbearers,” she said. “The men he sent were killed last night, on their way to the First City. Their Blades were stolen, and their entourage was replaced with assassins.”

  Elhokar moved to open his mouth, but Jasnah cut him off.

  “I have proof,” she said sharply. “As we speak, my other guard captain is delivering a captive to the royal dungeon. The man can authenticate my words. Once you hear what he has to say, you’ll realize that Jezenrosh was not behind the attempt on your life. The true assassins are your wife and Meridas.”

  Elhokar glanced toward his wife, who had paused a short distance away, her expression dark.

  “Nanavah has been delivering large sums of money to the false company run by the assassins,” Jasnah explained, gaining momentum as she saw guilt in Nanavah’s eyes. “She hired them to have you killed and implicate Jezenrosh.”

  Elhokar’s mood became troubled, and he stood for a moment, thoughtful. Finally, he looked up at Nanavah, his face angered. “I thought you were more cautious than this.”

  “You have no idea how cautious I was!” Nanavah said. “Your sister is just . . . inhumanly nosy. I warned you she would be trouble.”

  Jasnah felt a sharp sense of shock creep up her spine. She looked from Elhokar, to his wife, then back again. “By the winds . . . you knew?”

  Elhokar’s look was confirmation enough.

  “But, Nanavah and Meridas . . .” Jasnah said. “What about them?”

  Elhokar chuckled—the sound, cold rather than mirthful, made Jasnah shiver. “That part, dear sister, you contrived on your own.”

  “You knew,” Jasnah mumbled, stunned. “The assassins were never meant to succeed. They were to fight their way here, where you could pretend to defeat them on your own. That’s why the assassins took the bodies of the two Shardbearers with them—so that you would have corpses to show for the apparent attempt on your life.”

  Elhokar nodded.

  “The rumors . . .” Jasnah said. “You made them. You used Balenmar somehow—you led him along, knowing the man would be eager to prove his use to you.”

  “Balenmar is a link to my father,” Elhokar said. “If I can claim to be acting on information the old fool helped provide, I can gain the support of the more traditional elements of the kingdom.”

  Everything crumbled around her. “Elhokar, why?” she whispered.

  The king regarded her sufferingly. “You yourself told me that the noble-men have grown tired of war, Jasnah. Jezenrosh needs to be dealt with, but I’ve known for some time that gathering support against him would be difficult. The nobility needed to be given a little . . . nudge to help them along.”

  Jasnah felt like collapsing. She stumbled weakly, leaning back against the stone wall.

  “You’ve always underestimated me,” Elhokar said quietly. “You always assumed that I couldn’t rule alone. You claimed to love me, but with that love you presumed to control my court on my behalf. You never stopped to think that maybe your help wasn’t needed, nor was it appreciated.” Elhokar turned and nodded toward the other end of the room.

  Jasnah spun just in time to see Meridas jump forward. Nelshenden reacted belatedly—he had been watching the king with amazed eyes. Nelshenden turned just in time for Meridas to ram a small dagger into his chest. The soldier gasped once, then Meridas placed a hand over the man’s mouth, keeping him from yelling.

  That didn’t stop Jasnah. “No!” she screamed, rushing forward. Meridas released Nelshenden’s mouth and snapped his hand forward, grabbing Jasnah by the shoulder. He held her carefully, not hurting her, but keeping her at bay as he pulled the dagger free. Nelshenden slumped to the ground.

  No guards came at her call—Elhokar must have ordered them to remain outside, despite what they might hear. Meridas released Jasnah, and she fell to her knees beside Nelshenden, watching even as the light fled from his eyes, his mouth open, his body twisted in pain.

  “Nelshenden . . .” she whispered.

  “He knew far too much,” Elhokar said, approaching his chair and seating himself again. “Besides, his affection for you was unseemly. I will send you a new guard as a wedding gift—a man with a little more rank and experience.”

  Jasnah reached forward, resting her hand on the side of Nelshenden’s dead face. She would not cry. She survived as she had taught herself, long ago, during her days in Thalenah. She took all of the grief, guilt, and pain, and crammed it into the piece of ice within her. She did not shake or weep, she simply looked up through cool eyes at the man who was her brother. “I will not forget this, Elhokar.”

  “Bah,” the king said with a wave of his hand. “Spare me your preaching, Jasnah. You do not know what I know about Jezenrosh—the man needs to be stopped. Our kingdom depends on my ability to act before he is ready. Meridas, take your betrothed to her rooms and see that men you trust are posted at her door. Then seek out her second captain and his captive. Make certain their knowledge dies with them.”

  Jasnah did not turn her gaze from Elhokar as she rose. She watched him, eyes locked on his face, forcing herself to see the mistake she had made. Gone was the boy she had giv
en love and protection. In his place was a man who deserved neither. Elhokar turned away, a twinkle of shame in his eyes as Meridas forcibly led Jasnah out into the hallway.

  chapter 33

  Jek 6

  Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, delivered his captive as instructed. Ahven had set aside a room for the girl—one without windows, guarded by five soldiers. Jek gave her to their care, watching as they closed and locked the door behind the red-haired youth.

  Why is this girl of such importance? he wondered, lingering. She was of good birth, but not that good. Perhaps it was her tie to the Lady Jasnah Kholin. A tool for bargaining, perhaps?

  He left the palace behind, seeking out his master for the second time in one night. Idiot King no longer, Ahven now moved openly, wishing to be witnessed by as much of the Veden nobility as possible. Jek found the man near the gates to Veden City, standing in a ring of torches, looking out at the army which was still camped beyond.

  Jek approached, and the guards let him pass without comment.

  “You found the girl?” Ahven asked, turning toward Jek, watching his lips. Still deaf? But he sounded so natural.

  “Yes,” Jek replied. “She was at the competition.”

  Ahven nodded. “And there was an attempt on the king’s life?”

  “Two Shardbearers, sent by Elhokar’s own Parshen,” Jek said. “They were not successful.”

  “They were never intended to be,” Ahven said cryptically. “Alethkar will rise in civil war. It seems to be common, these days.”

  Jek did not respond. There was much activity in the army camp, a strange parallel of the fervor that had struck Veden City only hours before. Torches and lanterns scurried between the different sections of the army, and men stood alert, weapons drawn. Jek could hear the ringing of weapons in the background, and flame-lit smoke curled in the air from several groups of tents.