The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  As she finally got the dress to cover the more embarrassing sections of skin, Ahven stepped forward, grabbing her chin and lifting her eyes from the floor to meet his. “Your father is a fool,” he whispered. “We both realize that. Now we both also realize that I won’t indulge spoiled women, as he once did.”

  That was a mistake. It gave her a focus for her shame and anger. It let her see into those eyes again, and gather what strength she had. When he released her chin, it remained held up.

  “Good enough,” he told the guards. Her dress was disheveled and improperly tied, but she was at least decent.

  “Come,” Ahven said—both to her and the guards—as he strode from the room. Shinri followed, not because she was beaten, but because she knew there was no use to fighting at the moment. He had just proven his control. She couldn’t fight him, not yet.

  Her father joined the group as it strode down the palace hallways. He gave Shinri barely a look, though he did flush slightly at the sight of her with her hair unraveled and hanging freely, her dress rumpled.

  “What is this?” Ilhadal asked. “Why are the troops gathering outside?”

  “It’s time for you to have your proof, Ilhadal,” Ahven replied. “As promised. We begin our plans this afternoon.”

  “Now?” Ilhadal said. “But the gate . . .”

  “Come,” Ahven said simply.

  The shame of being forced to leave the palace and walk without a litter in her current state would have mortified the Shinri of a few hours before. Now the gawking citizens seemed like nothing.

  He killed Tethren, she thought. Somehow, Ahven convinced Tethren to ride to certain death, just so that I would be unengaged at the proper time. He found a way to slaughter the Davar line of succession so that my father would take the House throne.

  She had to keep a tight hold on her terror as they approached the Oathgate dome, lest she begin to worry about what he would do next. Unpredictable indeed. Unpredictable and terrible.

  Soldiers were gathered inside the city. This was odd enough to give Shinri pause—she had expected there to be an army outside the city, for she had heard some minor explanations of how Talshekh’s force was now commanded by the Idiot King. But these men were inside the city itself—thousands of them, spearmen, swordsmen, and archers standing in neat ranks, waiting for something.

  Ahven led her past the rows of men toward the Oathgate dome. Inside the red-painted structure waited another squadron of soldiers.

  These men wore blue uniforms. Aleth uniforms.

  Shinri couldn’t contain a laugh. “That’s why you kept me imprisoned,” she realized. “You think to take Ral Eram! You feared my loyalties to house Kholin!”

  Her father started, but Ahven acted as if he hadn’t even heard the comment. The king walked forward, inspecting the blue-uniformed troops.

  “You won’t get through the gate,” Shinri said, catching the king’s eye. “King Elhokar isn’t that great a fool. The gates are locked from the Aleth side except when there are plenty of troops present.”

  Ahven didn’t respond, but instead turned back to his inspection.

  “This?” Shinri asked of her father. “This is what you were preparing for? This is your great plan? You think the Aleths aren’t aware of the danger the Oathgates provide? You won’t be able to go through until they decide to open their end, and they’re always wary of an attack when they do so. You’ll never take the city this way.”

  Her father shifted uncomfortably. “He says he has a way to open the gates even if one side is locked,” Ilhadal mumbled weakly.

  Shinri laughed. “Then he is the Idiot King after all!”

  A hand grabbed her neck. “You can do this with or without the dress on, my queen,” Ahven whispered in her ear. “You may choose. If you say another word this day without first being told to do so, I will take it as a sign that you’ve decided to give the men a show.”

  Shinri flushed, and Ahven pulled her by the neck over to the Oathgate. He paused for a moment, eyes deep with concentration, and she thought she saw him take a breath—as if in preparation for some great task.

  Or some great gamble.

  “Touch it,” he said, nodding to the large opal set in the side of the Oathgate.

  “What?” Shinri asked.

  He nodded to the opal again. “Touch it,” he commanded.

  Shinri sighed, and reached out to the shimmering, palm-sized stone.

  Everything stopped.

  It was as if a hundred different pathways suddenly opened to her. An offering, made before her fatigued conscience—sudden and amazing refreshment. Pure and beautiful fulfillment of problems she hadn’t known she had. Distant locations appeared—not actual images, but tantalizing offerings, things formless yet encouraging. Just walk. Go. Find us. Leave.

  Through the images and longing, she somehow saw a haze of white mist stream down from the top of the Oathgate, obscuring its center and indicating that it had been opened.

  Ahven pushed her away from the gate, and her link was broken. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember what she had sensed or seen, and was left only with a hurtful desire.

  What . . . what was that?

  Ahven spun, smiling broadly and waving his hand toward the Oathgate. “Well?” he demanded of the stunned guards and collected noblemen. “Get moving!”

  Shinri stood quietly as the soldiers in blue rushed forward, piling through the now-open Oathgate.

  “Secure the palace!” Ahven ordered. “You must not let anyone out to raise warning. Kill any you see; I don’t care who they are. The future of the Three Houses depends on your courage! A living servant is one who can escape and warn King Elhokar—an event that would result in the deaths of yourselves and your brother soldiers!”

  Shinri stumbled away, but a guard caught her, holding her by the shoulders as Ahven continued to encourage the men to their grisly task. He would massacre the entire palace staff just to keep his invasion secret. He was worse than a monster. He was a thing for which Shinri had no words.

  And I’m married to him.

  Jasnah would probably tell her to stay with him. The position of power as Ahven’s wife would, in Jasnah’s eyes, provide the greater opportunity to protect lives and keep Alethkar safe. Though Ahven seemed harsh, he had . . . enjoyed bedding her. She could use that against him, forcing him to spare lives and be merciful.

  But I am not Jasnah. The revelation came as if a stark and sudden break in the clouds. And I never will be. She would be right—staying with him would serve the most good. It is the logical, and perhaps moral, choice. But I cannot do it.

  The first time he had come to her, she had accepted him—but she hadn’t known. Never again. If he took her again, she would fight.

  She looked up, studying the grim satisfaction in Ahven’s eyes. It had been a long time since she had felt hatred, and it had never been this strong.

  There was only one thing to do. The roads called to her, the outside, the freedom.

  She would escape.

  chapter 38

  Taln 7

  The statue looked nothing like him, of course. It stood about twelve feet tall, bold and powerful. Its face was indistinct, following Kanaran artistic traditions, but the body and clothing were magnificently detailed. An enormous, muscular chest sat atop squat, trunk-like legs. The arms bulged with inhuman strength as they held their massive Shardblade point-down in front of the body.

  Taln shook his head. No human could bear such ridiculous proportions and oversized muscles—such a man would have trouble walking, let alone fighting. Of course, that mattered little to the people. They would have their Heralds, and would design them as they saw fit. Truth rarely measured up to imagination.

  He had never grown accustomed to seeing his image—realistic or not—used as an icon of faith. It was bad enough when the Vorins used it. These new ‘Elinrah’ temples were even more troubling. Taln had heard the cromcleaners speak of the so-called ‘new’ Elinrah religions, which had devel
oped in rural areas during the last few centuries. However, the Elinrah ideas—focusing on mysticized worship of the Heralds—were not really all that new at all. They were just a continuation of mankind’s millennia-old heresy. Nearly every Epoch, the Heralds had been forced to reiterate their primary teaching: the Almighty was to be worshipped; the Elin were not.

  Taln sighed, turning away from the temple. Perhaps there would be time to correct the Heresy of Kanar later. He bowed his head and walked away from the city of Ral Eram, moving toward the steep, stone rampway that led to the upper plateau and the palace.

  And so I retreat, Taln thought. And leave them to their doom. It was a bitter realization. Ral Eram, the First Capital, had always been a place of strength. The city had never fallen to the Khothen. Even during the last two Returns, when the creatures had nearly overwhelmed mankind, Ral Eram had remained strong. Since its founding five Epochs before, the city had been a symbol of unity and hope for the people of Roshar.

  Unity no longer. Taln shouldered his pack—a simple construction sewn from the sheet of his bed—and climbed the palace incline. Below him, the city proper sat on its cliffside ledge, unaware that its Herald had failed. Over two months had passed since his coming; less than eight remained until the Khothen returned. Taln had no more time to spend on the once-great fortress city. He would find allies elsewhere, and with them stand.

  If only the others were here, Taln thought with frustration. Jezrien would have persuaded the foolish king and his sister, Sign or no Sign. Nale would have drawn supporters from the warriors of the city with his sheer aura of noble efficiency. Chanaral—dear, patient Chanaral—would have gained the love of the people, and with that love forged an alliance against the darkness to come.

  Unfortunately, Ral Eram had been left with Taln instead. A warrior, true, but one of steel and blood; a conflict of politics and persuasion was far beyond his capabilities. Perhaps, once he located the others, he would be able to bring them back. Perhaps there was time yet for Ral Eram.

  If you find the others . . . a voice in his mind whispered.

  I will! Taln told himself, swiftly capping his worries, lest the fires come again. I will . . .

  A figure met him at the top of the stone ramp. Taln paused, frowning as he regarded Lhan. Would the monk never give up? Over the last few days, Lhan had tried incessantly to convince Taln to stay. Taln had been glad when Jasnah’s messenger had finally come—telling him a time had been arranged for him to use the Oathgates—if only because it would finally let him be rid of Lhan’s pestering. Apparently, he had been premature in that assumption.

  “Well?” Taln asked of Lhan.

  The monk smiled, stepping aside and revealing a small pack—crafted, Taln noticed, very similarly to his own. “I’ve decided to go with you.”

  Taln raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t get to choose,” Lhan said happily, picking up his pack. “If you leave me behind, I’ll just follow you and made a nuisance of myself.”

  “You’re needed here,” Taln said, walking past him.

  “Oh, I know,” Lhan said, rushing to catch up. “Without me, the monastery floors will have no one to clean them. A tragedy, let me assure you.” He paused, cocking his head to the side. “Of course, if I leave, the monastery seniors will have to replace me. Maybe the cleaning will actually get done once in a while. I guess I’m doing them a favor.”

  “You’re not coming with me,” Taln said, walking up the palace steps. He proffered Lady Jasnah’s admittance note to one of the guards, then waited as the man carried the note over to the guardhouse so their scribe could read it.

  “You know, Talenel,” Lhan said. “For a man who claims to be horribly unsettled by the fact that no one believes his message, you seem rather quick to reject the one follower you’ve managed to recruit.”

  Taln eyed the monk. “You don’t believe that I am a Herald.”

  Lhan shrugged. “Haven’t made up my mind yet. Perhaps I just need a little more time.”

  Taln snorted. Lhan hid the truth well, but it was very difficult to lie to a man who had lived for three thousand years. Lhan still thought Taln insane—in fact, Lhan thought him even more insane than he once had. The monk had that glint in his eye. It was the glint the nobility had shown on that night months ago, when Taln had failed to show the Sign. It was the glint the warrior monks had shown when Taln infiltrated their training courtyard. It was a glint born of the discomfort, uncertainty, and even fright that came from speaking with a complete madman.

  Oddly, it disappointed Taln to see the discomfort in Lhan’s eyes. The monk had never shown it before. Lhan’s worry was a recent manifestation—something that had appeared after that night at the duels, when the monk had finally realized the extent to which Taln was willing to go. Now Lhan understood. He would never quite be comfortable around Taln again.

  But there was truth in Lhan’s words. Taln was in no position to reject anyone willing to help him. The Khothen were coming, the Knights Epellion were no more, and his Blade had been stolen. Taln would have to make use of the tools he had.

  “Very well,” Taln said as the guard returned, waving Taln into the palace and handing back his writ. “You may come, assuming you’re willing to agree to one condition. You will not sabotage my attempts to persuade the other kings of Roshar. You might be convinced of my insanity; let others make their own decision. Agreed?”

  “Sounds fair,” Lhan said, joining him as they moved through the massive entry hall, walking toward the Oathgate chamber. The monk wore a simple grey traveling robe and cloak, his feet shod with leather sandals.

  “We’ll have to see about getting you some boots,” Taln said. “We may need to cut across some stormlands between cities.”

  “Boots,” Lhan said with amusement. “I’ve never owned a pair.”

  Taln paused. “Never?” he asked.

  Lhan shook his head.

  Taln frowned. “When was the last time you left the First Capital?”

  “Fifteen years ago,” Lhan replied.

  Great. “I don’t suppose you ever did any weapons training with the Order of Khonra?”

  “Nope,” Lhan said cheerfully. “Never found much use for it.”

  Even better, Taln thought with a sigh. “Come on,” he said, walking the final distance to the Oathgate chamber. Two blue-liveried soldiers stood at the entrance, and they quickly moved to block Taln and Lhan. Taln reached into his cloak pocket, unfolding Jasnah’s writ and proffering it again.

  The guard did not take the paper. “The Oathgates are sealed,” the man said simply.

  “I have a—” Taln began.

  “No exceptions,” the guard informed.

  Taln frowned. “I was told I would be allowed through before King Elhokar’s sealing took effect.”

  The guard did not respond.

  Taln sighed, glancing to the side, where Lhan betrayed a hint of nervous-ness. Mentally, Taln rolled his eyes. The monk obviously worried that Taln would just attack the soldier out of frustration. Not that Lhan would be worried about the guard; he still assumed Taln to be some deranged farmer who had stood out during one too many highstorms.

  “Go and find Lady Jasnah,” Taln told the guard calmly, much to Lhan’s obvious relief. “She’ll explain.”

  Again, the soldier didn’t reply.

  “Well, that’s that,” Lhan said, tugging on Taln’s sleeve. “Guess we’ll have to go back. We can return as soon as Lady Jasnah sorts things out. You know, this is actually fortunate—I know a couple of men who offered to let us into a game of chips tonight, if we happened to . . .”

  Taln ignored the monk, frowning slightly to himself. His instincts twitched nervously. Something was wrong. He glanced to the side, analyzing his surroundings, his body growing taut with anticipation. What had his subconscious noticed . . . ?

  The Oathgate room, Taln thought, looking past the guards. An inordinate number of soldiers were gathered in the room, all in Ale
thkar blue. Except . . .

  It was faint. Very faint. The scent of blood.

  “Yes, Lhan,” Taln said slowly, backing away from the two soldiers. “I think we will go.”

  Lhan actually looked surprised. Taln studied the soldiers as he walked away. Their uniforms were too perfect. Their hair was Aleth black, but their temples and fingers were darkened slightly with dye. Behind the two guards, several squads of soldiers formed up, weapons drawn. One of them noticed Taln’s study and raised a hand, barking a command to one of his companions.

  “Out of the palace, now!” Taln said, shoving the monk down the hallway and taking off at a dash.

  chapter 39

  Merin 9

  “The Sovereign must hold himself to a higher standard than the citizen. His path is one of poise, of control, and of sobriety. When his people feast, he must remain watchful for enemies. When his people sleep, he must remain alert for danger. He must never allow his honor to be compromised, because his actions are the actions of a country. His honor is their honor. This is Sheneres—to act as normal men wish they could.”

  Merin paced in the monastery reading room, its smaller confines well fitting his agitated mood. The monk, in his simple grey sencoat and tan trousers, read calmly from The Way of Kings. Though the man undoubtedly noticed Merin’s state, he refrained from making any commentary. He simply read according to his duty, acting as an unbiased conduit for the ancient text.

  Merin would have welcomed a little advice at the moment. Unfortunately, he was becoming accustomed enough to noble propriety to realize this was not an issue to discuss with a random monastery brother. And so he paced, hoping Bajerden’s wisdom would stretch through the epochs to tell Merin what he should do.