The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  Merin frowned. “Then, what is this ‘skepping’ that the others mentioned?”

  “Something you don’t need to know at the moment,” Vasher said. Then, however, he raised a hand to cut off Merin’s objection. “However, it might be a good idea to start training you, just in case. Here, sit down.”

  Merin did so eagerly, settling himself on the sand. Vasher seated himself directly in front of Merin, adopting an almost meditative pose. “Hold out your hand in front of yourself, pointing at me, then hold up one finger and point it at the sky.”

  Merin did as commanded.

  “What do you see?” Vasher asked.

  “Um, my finger?” Merin replied.

  “Now focus on me,” Vasher commanded. “Leave your hand where it is. What do you see?”

  Merin frowned in confusion. “The same thing.”

  “The same?” Vasher asked. “Or two copies of the same?”

  “Well, yes,” Merin said. “If I focus on you, I see two versions of my finger. One from each eye.”

  “Exactly,” Vasher said. “Now, I want you to focus your attention away from the two fingers. Keep looking at me, but try and see through your fingers. First one, then the other. If you concentrate hard enough, you should be able to see what is beyond, even though your finger is in the way.”

  “All right . . .” Merin said.

  Vasher stood. “When you can make both fingers disappear at once, you’ll be ready to learn skepping.”

  “That’s it?” Merin protested, lowering his finger.

  Chadrin laughed. “Be glad, kid. At least he didn’t make you do anything completely pointless. I remember him once forcing a student to try and snatch raindops from the sky during a highstorm!”

  Vasher grunted. “This isn’t a ‘pointless’ exercise, Chadrin,” he snapped. “It will teach the boy to focus and to control his perceptions. It will train his mind for what is to come—if you can come up with a better meditative exercise, then you can go find your own student.”

  Merin smiled at the repartee, holding his finger up again and trying to make the separate images disappear, as Vasher had taught. Unfortunately, now that his master had moved, the view in front of Merin was that of the other noblemen. They continued their sparring, their laughter, and their camarad-erie—all without even passing a glance by Vasher’s corner of the courtyard.

  “They still don’t accept me,” Merin said. “I thought, maybe, helping Aredor save the king would change things. But it didn’t. They’re polite, some are even respectful, but they don’t like me. I don’t think I’ll ever be one of them.”

  “Good,” Vasher said.

  “Oh, leave the boy alone, Vasher,” Chadrin said. “Just because we left that world behind doesn’t mean it’s bad for everyone.”

  “The boy needs to know the truth,” Vasher said firmly. “They’ll never accept you, Merin. Never. You remind them too much of what they are not, and that makes them uncomfortable. They’re jealous of you because of what you’ve done in saving the king.”

  “But everyone knows that was Aredor,” Merin said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Vasher said. “They’re jealous. And, more importantly, they’re angry that you aren’t beneath them any more—you’re even above most of them in rank. They’re angry that Lord Dalenar gave you a place in his house, and they’re never, never going to accept you as one of their own. Get used to it.”

  Merin lowered his eyes, staring down at the uncountable grains of sand before him. “Lord Dalenar said something similar. Back when I first got my Blade. He said I wouldn’t be able to make them like me, but I might be able to make them respect me.”

  “Lord Dalenar is a wise man,” Vasher repeated.

  “A wise man,” Chadrin said quietly. “A liar, but still wise.”

  Vasher shot Chadrin a laconic glare, and for the first time Chadrin looked as if he regretted one of his quips. Chadrin glanced away, blushing slightly. Before Merin could voice a question, Vasher turned the stare toward him, forcing him to choke down the inquiry. The topic of Lord Dalenar’s supposed ‘lies’ was not to be discussed.

  As soon as Merin returned from the monastery, he went looking for Aredor. His friend had been notably absent from sparring recently. Part of this was due, of course, to Aredor’s wound—the cut on his side had been deep, and had nearly cost him the use of his arm. He would not soon swing a sword with that hand again.

  There was more to it, though. Of all the members of Lord Dalenar’s house, inactivity seemed to aggravate Aredor the most. Merin saw the look in his friend’s eyes the last few times Aredor had visited the monastery—the young nobleman didn’t seem to find solace or relief in exercise, but rather saw the sparring as a reminder of the war he thought he should be fighting.

  Indeed, Aredor had been uncharacteristically pensive these last few weeks. Merin never knew where to locate his friend anymore—Aredor could no longer be found sparring at the monastery, lounging near the ladies’ gardens, or drinking with friends in the local taverns. Instead, Dalenar’s heir tended to sulk in the quiet palace sitting rooms—where he would sit with dissatisfied eyes and a snappish attitude—or sometimes he would wander the palace, pacing and brooding like a vengeful stormshade.

  The worst sign of all was Aredor’s refusal to accompany his father when visiting local noblemen. Lord Dalenar was gone at the moment, in fact, on a three-day trip. Merin would have thought that Aredor would welcome the chance to leave Kholinar, but the heir had complained fatigue from his injury and remained behind. Merin shook his head—not like Aredor at all.

  Merin strode into the palace. He made a point of visiting his friend every day to try and lift the man’s spirits, and so he made his way to Aredor’s rooms. The steward there, however, informed Merin that Lord Aredor was absent—and, like usual, Aredor had left no word of his destination. Merin sighed, knocking on the door across the hallway instead. A familiar voice called for him to enter—Renarin employed no steward.

  Merin opened the door and stepped inside. There was something oddly sanitary about Renarin’s quarters—they didn’t quite look like someone lived in them. The boy was tidy almost to a fault, and he shunned ornamentation. Merin, by Aredor’s recommendation, had commissioned several works of glyph art from local artists and hung them in his room. Renarin’s walls were empty, and though his quarters were far larger than Merin’s, they held about half as much furniture, and no rugs.

  The room’s only sign of personalization was the desk near the corner of the room, a piece of furniture that held several stacks of glyph-covered papers. Merin walked across the empty room, picking up the topmost paper. The glyphs were pressed on its page in haphazard, almost frustrated, sequences. Merin recognized most of them—simple numbers, nothing like the complex characters used in paintings or books of literature.

  “I’m on the balcony,” Renarin’s voice called from a short distance away.

  Merin replaced the paper and made his way out onto the balcony. Though the Kholinar palace was only one story tall, it had been build on a slight cleft in the land, allowing all of the rooms on the backmost wall to overlook the city. Lord Dalenar’s balcony monopolized most of the space, but Renarin’s rooms had a small section to the side of his father’s.

  Renarin stood in simple whitish-grey clothing, not even wearing a cloak. He leaned against the balcony’s stone railing, staring out—not at the city, but instead up into the sky toward a pattern of clouds that drifted toward the lait. Not dark highstorm clouds, but regular white ones, the kind that Aredor claimed were far more common near the coast.

  “Have you seen your brother around today?” Merin asked, walking up to stand beside Renarin.

  Renarin’s shake of the head was almost imperceptibly slight. Merin squinted up into the sky, trying unsuccessfully to delve just what it was about the clouds that fascinated Renarin so.

  “He didn’t come to sparring again today,” Merin said. “The healers said he should try and work his good arm, so t
hat he doesn’t get too weak. But he hasn’t shown up all week.”

  Renarin nodded.

  Merin sighed, leaning against the railing. “It’s just a cloud, Renarin. What’s so fascinating about it?”

  “I don’t know,” Renarin answered after a pause. “I wish I did.”

  Merin shook his head. Sometimes talking with Renarin was about as informative as a conversation with a rock.

  Renarin frowned, still watching the cloud. “Do you ever think that you might be . . . missing something?”

  “Missing something?” Merin asked. “Like what? An appointment?”

  “No,” Renarin said. “Something bigger. Like a piece of you that isn’t there, and never has been. But you can feel the space where it should go, and you wonder if everyone feels that space and doesn’t recognize it, or if they all have the piece and you don’t.”

  Merin frowned. “I don’t know, Renarin,” he said, trying his best to answer the question. “I always dreamed about the ballads and the wars. I wanted to be part of something like the stories I had heard. Then, suddenly, I was—and it turned out to be very different from what I had expected. There isn’t much glory in watching your friends get cut down by arrows and spears.”

  “But you became a Shardbearer,” Renarin noted.

  Merin grunted. “And sometimes I wonder if that was a blessing from the Almighty, or just some kind of divine prank.”

  Renarin smiled. “At least you got what you wanted, even if you later realized it wasn’t what you had thought. Me . . . I don’t even know what it is I want. I’ll probably never be a Shardbearer again, and the king certainly isn’t going to appoint me to any important positions.”

  “You’ll always have a place in Kholinar,” Merin said. “Aredor will see to that.”

  “Coddled by my elder brother,” Renarin said, shaking his head. “There should be more . . .” he glanced back toward the room. Merin followed his gaze toward the desk, with its papers. “Things have been confusing recently, Merin. I write at my equations and my numbers, like I did even as a child, but something’s wrong. I can’t find the answers anymore. It’s like . . . like I don’t have all the numbers. It’s like the universe can count to ten, but I can only reach five.”

  “Renarin,” Merin said flatly, “I have absolutely no idea what that’s supposed to mean.”

  Renarin smiled. “Neither do I, I suppose. I guess that’s the problem.”

  Merin shook his head, sighing. How could someone be so depressing if you didn’t even understand what they were talking about? As Merin turned, he noticed something from the palace grounds below. There was motion at the stables. “Has your father returned early?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Renarin said, watching the cloud again.

  Merin frowned. There was certainly something going on down there. “Come on,” he said, tugging at Renarin’s shoulder. It would do the boy some good to get out of his rooms.

  “Lord Aredor has decided to ride out and meet his father,” the stablemaster explained. “We’re preparing his mounts.”

  “To meet his father?” Merin asked. “But Lord Dalenar is expected back in just a couple of days. Aredor will have to turn around and come back almost as soon as he arrives!”

  “I don’t question the command of my betters, my lord,” the stablemaster huffed. And neither should you, his tone implied.

  Merin sighed. The stablehands were preparing at least two tensets of horses—Aredor obviously intended to travel well-attended. What was he thinking, and why hadn’t he mentioned the decision to Merin?

  Merin glanced at Renarin, who was studying the horses intently. Eventually, Renarin just shrugged. “I guess we can just ask him.”

  Merin followed Renarin’s nod, toward where a group of figures was crossing the palace courtyard. Aredor, dressed for riding, strode at their head, his deep blue Kholin cloak billowing behind him. Fifteen men accompanied him. Merin did a quick face count, and came up with a surprising list.

  “Five Shardbearers, including Aredor,” he mumbled to Renarin. “And the rest are fairly high-ranking as well. What is his purpose?”

  Renarin didn’t reply. Aredor noticed the two of them and paused, then walked forward to meet them. He adopted a friendly smile, reminiscent of the old Aredor, but it seemed a bit forced. Still, it was good to see him walking so firmly, his head held high, the brooding gone from his eyes.

  “Ah, Merin,” Aredor said. “I’ve been looking for you. I didn’t want to leave without letting you know where I’d gone.”

  Merin frowned, glancing toward the horses. The other men were packing the last of their gear and mounting up. “What is the meaning of this, Aredor?” Merin asked. “It doesn’t make any sense. Lord Dalenar will be back within a couple of days anyway.”

  “I’ve had a change of heart,” Aredor explained. “I can’t sit around anymore—I have to go to him. Father needs me right now; he said so himself.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to go pack,” Merin said slowly. “Or did you already take care of that?”

  “You aren’t coming,” Aredor said.

  The words were like a slap across the face. Aredor had always included him. “But . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Merin,” Aredor said with a shake of his head. “I can’t take you this time. Don’t worry, it won’t be for long. You wouldn’t want to come anyway—it will be a boring trip.”

  “I don’t understand,” Merin complained. “If it’s such a minor trip, then why does it matter if I come? Why—”

  “He’s not going to meet Father,” Renarin interrupted in a quiet, yet piercing, voice.

  Merin paused, noting the flash of shame in Aredor’s eyes. The pack horses, Merin realized. There are too many of them. They wouldn’t need so many supplies for a two-day trip.

  “The war,” Merin said. “You’re going to fight!”

  Aredor shot a furtive glance at the working stablehands, then turned back to Merin and Renarin, speaking in a low voice. “You can’t tell anyone,” he said. “Father will try to find a way to stop us.”

  Merin paled. “You’re disobeying Lord Dalenar’s direct command!”

  Aredor paused, then nodded once. “I can’t remain here in Kholinar, Merin. I need to find out for myself if my cousin is a traitor, and I don’t trust the king. I received a letter from Lady Jasnah the night of the dueling competition. She seemed to think that her life was in danger, that the queen herself was involved in the assassination attempt on the king. There’s more to this entire mess than people are telling us.”

  “If Lord Dalenar knew something, he’d tell us,” Merin asserted.

  “Probably,” Aredor agreed. “But Jasnah sent the letter to me, not Father. She knows what I know—that Father is too conservative. He’s too worried about propriety sometimes, and this waiting proves it. He doesn’t know which side is right, so he won’t help either one, lest he choose incorrectly and find himself in the wrong. Well, I’m more of a gambler—and so are those who’ve decided to join me.

  “There are things on the winds that just don’t smell right, Merin. Everyone knows the king has been dissatisfied with Jezenrosh for some time—and he’s been suspiciously slow in disbanding his armies. There’s something very convenient about the way those assassins struck, giving the king a perfect opportunity to move against Crossguard. Well, my companions and I don’t intend to let Elhokar raise his hand against one of our own until we’re certain the move is just.”

  Merin opened his mouth, then closed it. How do I make a decision like this? Choose between Lord Dalenar and Aredor?

  “This could cost you your title, Aredor,” Renarin whispered.

  Aredor smiled wryly. “Father taught me too well. He always told me it was best to do what I knew was right in my heart. Well, this is right, and I’m going. We can work out the consequences later. Besides, what is the worth of a title when you don’t use it to seek what is just? He taught me that too.”

  “Father will chase
you down,” Renarin warned. “He’ll have to send men after you to protect the integrity of his command.”

  Aredor nodded. “Oh, he’ll send men. But he won’t catch us—no matter how fast his horses ride.”

  Merin stood, trapped by his own indecisiveness. How could he let Aredor ride without him? The man who had befriended him, and who had taught him what it was like to live as a nobleman?

  Merin’s cloak blew in the wind. Lord Dalenar’s cloak, given to him as a symbol of Merin’s oath of service. Aredor regarded Merin for a long, uncomfortable moment.

  “I won’t take you even if you offer, Merin,” Aredor finally said. “I can see the indecision in your eyes, and this isn’t a task for the uncommitted. Take care of Renarin until I return.”

  With that, Aredor turned and climbed into his saddle. Within a few moments, all fifteen men were gone, riding from the city and trailing the dust of their broken oaths behind them.

  chapter 37

  Shinri 7

  Shinri was soon to discover what her father had meant by King Ahven’s ‘transformation.’ While the security at her room was not relaxed, she was given a couple of ladies-in-waiting to provide service and companionship. Their greatest contribution by far, however, was in the area of information.

  Shinri learned about the king’s sudden and miraculous Remaking from idiot to leader. Both of her ladies—young and low-born—found the king a dramatic figure. They spoke of his speeches before the citizens and lords, telling Shinri of his powerful voice and his commanding sense of honor. In just a few short days, King Ahven had managed to unite two opposing armies, making friends of all three Houses.

  Of course, her father had something to do with that. His sudden rise to First Prince was absolutely remarkable. That was the word one of the girls used—‘remarkable.’ She had to think for a moment before saying it, however, and Shinri could see the hushed rumors in her eyes. The girl wouldn’t, of course, speak the rumors to Ilhadal’s own daughter. Shinri could guess what was being said, however. People assumed that her father had subtly killed his way to the top, a fact that would greatly weaken his reputation. The men of Jah Keved believed strongly in the duel as an ultimate decider of disputes, and they found assassination a cowardly substitute.