The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Read that part again,” Merin said, pausing.

  “The Sovereign must hold himself accountable to laws that normal men may ignore,” the monk said dutifully. “It is only by living a higher path himself that he can ask his people to obey his dictates.”

  Merin nodded, beginning his pacing again as the brother continued on. As Merin moved, his eye caught sight of the room’s corner, where his Shardblade sat leaning against the wall, Dalenar’s cloak draped over its hilt.

  The Sovereign must hold himself accountable to laws that normal men may ignore. Merin was no sovereign, no king or Parshen. And yet, he was a nobleman. Bajerden’s words were addressed to him.

  Merin had assumed he understood. He’d wanted to be a hero, wanted it so badly. His dreams had been of Shardblades and great acts of courage, his mind stuffed with evening stories told when the day’s harvest was in.

  He had been prepared for hardship. The stories always spoke of the soreness of marching, or that of sleeping on rock. Things were never easy for the great warriors—their horses died, their friends betrayed them, and they always got caught outside during highstorms.

  He had been prepared to be hurt, perhaps to die. The heroes didn’t always win. Some, like poor Tanath of Kanar, died bravely—but died nonetheless.

  Merin continued his pacing. Why hadn’t any of the stories prepared him for this? What of the guilt that came from doing what you thought was right, then realizing afterward that you might have been wrong?

  What was the right answer?

  He had let Aredor go. A braver man would have gone with his friend, joining him in a just—but unpopular—cause. A more honorable man would have sent word to Lord Dalenar, warning of the heir’s flight. Perhaps if Merin had done that, the riders sent to chase Aredor down would have been successful. Yet, faced with these two options, Merin had done nothing. He hadn’t gone with Aredor, and he hadn’t informed Lord Dalenar.

  His inaction made him feel . . . nonexistent. The world continued as if Merin weren’t involved. But, wasn’t that a good thing? Who was he to interfere with the workings of great men?

  The Sovereign must hold himself accountable to laws that normal men may ignore.

  That was the problem. Faced with two choices—both honorable in their own light—Merin had done nothing. But, he thought with frustration, what could I have done? Sent messengers to Lord Dalenar, thereby betraying Aredor? Left to try and protect Aredor, thereby breaking my oaths to Lord Dalenar?

  Honor was supposed to be absolute. Of this single fact, the stories were firm. There was good and there was evil. Was Merin flawed because he couldn’t tell the two apart? He wasn’t really a nobleman, after all. He was just a peasant with a Shardblade. He couldn’t help thinking that a better man in his same position would have instinctively known what to do.

  They did. Dalenar and Aredor. They both knew their courses—and they chose opposite paths. But they’re both good men!

  Could a good man choose a dishonorable action?

  The monk had stopped reading. Merin paused, looking up. They must have reached the end of the fourth section of The Way of Kings already.

  “You may go,” Merin said. He’d kept the man far too long already, and Bajerden’s words didn’t seem like they were helping all that much. Merin had gone through the entire book nearly a tenset times during the last week, and he was no closer to a solution.

  Merin sighed, gathering up his Blade and throwing on his cloak. Outside, the hallways of Gloryhome monastery were broad, almost daunting. Great archways covered massive and intricate glyphrenderings, constructed with silvers, golds, and gemstones so that they glistened in the sunlight. Merin passed near one, his form blocking the window’s light and throwing a shadow over the majestic wall inlay. It was designed vaguely in the shape of the Double Eye, but it was crafted from what looked to be hundreds—maybe even thousands—of glyphs. He ran his eyes along the patterns, looking for forms he recognized. There were a few familiar glyphs, but not the one he sought.

  He suspected he would never again see his phantom glyph, the strange carving that had granted him such power. The stories and old gaffers often spoke of mystical glyphwards, imbued with power. They were always ancient and rare things, like in the tale of the Tenth Dawn, with its pig-herding hero.

  Merin had found such a glyph of power, but had wasted its energies in one furious moment. He could still feel the winds charging down the palace hallway, screaming in his ears, obeying his desperate plea. Such strength . . .

  If only he could remember the exact construction of the glyph. Perhaps he could recreate its power, if only in some small way. But his attempts so far had been laughable—and he dare not show them to anyone else, for they smacked too closely of writing.

  Merin shook his head. Such powers were for Awakeners and mystics—it had been marvelous fortune that one had found its way to him, even for a short time. In fact, it was probably better that it was gone. Such things were not meant for simple boys like Merin. It had belonged to the faceless Shardbearer, a charm intended for the workings of some great deed.

  A deed I foiled, Merin thought. The assassination of King Elhokar. That glpyhward was meant for foul deeds, Merin. Yes, it is much better lost. In the end, instead of killing the king, the glyphward had served to save the man’s life.

  “I stare at them too, sometimes,” Renarin’s voice said from behind.

  Merin turned as Renarin walked up beside him. The younger Kholin son stood with his eyes focused on the massive glyphrendering. “Even when I was a boy, I was more interested in the patterns on monastery walls and floors than I was in the sermons of the monks.” Renarin reached up, brushing a line of silver inlay with his fingers, as if searching through touch for some meaning that his eyes could not detect. Finally, he turned to Merin. “How was your recitation from The Way of Kings?”

  “Frustrating,” Merin replied. “What about you? How was your recitation of . . . uh . . .”

  “Beyond the Wall of Essence,” Renarin explained. “And yes, it was interesting—though it’s a Seventh Epoch work, and some of the language is difficult to understand. You should have it read to you sometime—especially if you’re interested in Lhonomic theory.”

  Merin nodded, though he had little interest in the esoteric works Renarin studied. The basic texts were confusing enough. Merin turned to go, moving down the hallway toward the monastery exit. Renarin’s eyes lingered on the massive glyphrendering, but he did follow.

  Merin stepped out into the sunlight. Gloryhome was very different from the other two monasteries in Kholinar. It was constructed on the side of the lait valley, a moderate hike from the city proper. Renarin explained that Ishar monks, the order named after the Herald who had written the Arguments, tended to prefer seclusion. Gloryhome’s hallways were always quiet, and there were no courtyards for dueling practice—just seemingly endless rooms filled with books, scrolls, and reading pedestals.

  They began to walk the switchbacks leading down to Kholinar, Merin’s mind brooding over the same old problems. The morning chill had burned away as the sun crested the valley walls, and the summer heat was powerful. That only served to increase his taxed feeling of fatigue. “Do you wonder if we did the right thing, Renarin?” he asked as they walked.

  “It is a man’s way to wonder,” Renarin replied.

  Merin sighed, rolling his eyes slightly. Unfortunately, Renarin was the only one he could talk to about the topic. “Well, do you find any answers when you wonder?”

  “I assume you’re talking about my brother,” Renarin said.

  Merin nodded.

  Renarin walked for a moment before speaking again. “I don’t know, Merin,” he finally said. “I don’t think it would have been right to try and stop him. You saw how he was that week before he left. This is something he needed to do.”

  “And if he dies out there?” Merin asked. “If he is killed in the war, won’t his death be partially upon us, since we didn’t do our duty by stop
ping him?”

  Renarin shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “How can you be so ambivalent?” Merin demanded with frustration. “This is your brother we’re talking about! If we had been the ones leaving for war, Aredor would have gone with us—you know he would have. Aredor would have insisted on accompanying us, if only to protect us from harm. But we let him go alone.”

  Renarin fell silent. Eventually he just sighed. “You think I haven’t considered these things, Merin? You think I haven’t stood in the night, staring east, wondering what Aredor is doing? If he’s all right? I’ve seen you brooding these last few days. Well, you’re not the first one to worry. People always whisper about me in court, about how I’m always thinking about things no one else cares about. Well, I think about things I care about—and let me promise you, if it involves Aredor’s flight, I’ve considered it. Far harder, and far longer, than you probably have.”

  Merin recoiled slightly at the outburst, spoken in Renarin’s usual near-​monotone, yet snappish nonetheless. A moment later, Renarin turned toward him, a bit of the hostility draining from his posture.

  “I’m sorry, Merin,” he said. “I wish I could answer you. It seems I’m having enough trouble answering my own questions lately. I’ve always been able to see things—answer problems that no one else can. But now, when it finally matters, I can’t find anything but more questions. I don’t know where to find the answers to any of them.”

  Merin looked down, feeling a bit ashamed. If Renarin had tried that hard and was still confused, what chance did Merin have of finding the answers. If only . . .

  Merin looked up. The city was approaching, and from their vantage he could make out much of its sprawl—including several distinctive buildings.

  Renarin doesn’t know where to find the answers . . .

  “I think I do,” Merin said. “Come on.”

  The Elinrah temples confused Merin. For the most part, the nobility ignored the Elinrah—and, what little they did say about the religious sects was always scornful. That felt odd to Merin, since in other areas of faith, the nobility were quick to prove how righteous they were.

  During his months in Kholinar, Merin had been able to discover a bit of what made the Elinrah unpopular. The ten Heraldic sects were connected in the noble mind to the common man—but not in the same way as the Order of Khonra monks, who spend their time serving the poor and the feeble. No, the Elinrah were considered something that only citizens participated in, something beneath noble attention. There also seemed to be some sense that the Elinrah were unorthodox, even profane, though Merin couldn’t understand how that would be. The Elinrah worshiped the Heralds and the Almighty, just like Vorinism. They were parts of the same religion.

  Renarin balked at the temple entrance. “I don’t think we should be doing this, Merin.”

  “Why not?” Merin asked. “Elinrah soothsayers came through my village all the time, and everyone agreed that they were useful. They predicted the floods during my twelfth year, and one told my mother she was pregnant before she even knew. My father always got their advice to decide which day to begin the planting or harvest.”

  “That’s superstition, Merin,” Renarin said. “The Almighty doesn’t work like that, giving his truths to whispering soothsayers and mystics.”

  “Why not?” Merin asked. “Doesn’t He want us to know what to do? The Arguments say He loves us, right? So, He’d want us to ask Him what to do.”

  “We ask for blessings through the monasteries,” Renarin said.

  Merin rolled his eyes. “This is the same thing. Come on, I’ll show you. If the Elinrah were evil, would your father let them into his city?”

  “I don’t think he has much choice,” Renarin said. “They’re too popular to keep out.” He looked up, staring at the statue of Prael Smokewish, Herald of Secrets. The statue depicted a dynamic figure—a tall, lean man who was bare-chested beneath his sencoat. The Herald’s right arm was upraised, fingers curled as if grasping an unseen object. The head pointed east, toward the dawn, and the left hand held a stone Shardblade.

  “I’ve never liked that statue,” Renarin said. “I don’t imagine Prael’Elin like that. He’s too . . . imposing to be a scholar.”

  “Are you coming in or not?” Merin prodded.

  Renarin finally sighed, climbing the steps and joining Merin. Merin nodded, trying to look more confident than he was. In truth, he didn’t have much of an idea how to proceed. Where he came from, the Elinrah didn’t have grand temples or beautiful statues. Elinrah priests were humble-clothed men who traveled the villages making auguries or giving blessings, and while most towns had Elinrah fraternities, Merin had been too young to join their clandestine meetings.

  Yet he had come this far. Surely the Elinrah here gave auguries, like the priests did in the villages. The entry-chamber was dark, lit only by strange lanterns that were covered in dark blue glass encasings. The flames flickered as things distant, their light frail. Several figures in dark grey, or perhaps dark blue, robes stood in conference at one side of the room. As soon as they noticed Merin and Renarin, however, one of the men scuttled forward with a quick step.

  “My lords!” he said eagerly, his excited voice echoing strangely in the gloomy room. “Welcome, welcome. I am called Kamp. Have you come for blessing, wisdom, or augury?”

  “Augury,” Merin said.

  “Ah, excellent, my lords,” the man said with a friendly bow. He took special note of Merin’s Blade, then squinted at Renarin’s face and paled slightly. “Why, Lord Kholin!” he exclaimed. “This is . . . a rare honor.”

  “It is a rare time,” Renarin replied with a frown.

  “What kind of augury do you require, my lords?” the man asked. “Of the sands, of the wines, or of the wards?”

  Merin only recognized one. “Wards,” he replied.

  “Very good. Please, if you will—there is an augury room to your right. I shall fetch you a seer.” Kamp nodded toward a small chamber at the side of the entryway, then scuttled away and disappeared into a darkened corridor.

  “Bit cheery for an evil cultist,” Renarin noted, frown still in place.

  Merin snorted, leading the way toward the augury chamber. “Elinrah is no cult,” he snapped. “It’s just another part of Vorinism. Honestly, there’s even a Herald outside!”

  Renarin didn’t respond, instead allowing himself to be led into the side-room. It was oblong, with a carved double eye on the floor. In the center of the eye, sitting on top of the glyphs Kav and Dal, was a stone table with a bench along one side and a stool on the other. Three of the blue lanterns hung along the sides of the room, and silver glyphs were carved almost ostentatiously along the walls. They were neither as beautiful nor as intricate as the glyphs in the temple—more like background decorations than actual pieces of art.

  A few minutes later Kamp returned, leading an elderly man by the arm. The old man looked fairly unhappy to need the assistance, and held his head high—an attempt at dignity slightly undermined by his faltering step. As soon as the two reached the stool, the old man swiped at the younger priest’s arm. “I am quite fine on my own,” he snapped in a grumbling voice, seating himself. Kamp didn’t let go of the old man’s arm until he was completely situated, however—an action that earned him another swipe.

  The old priest composed himself, gnarled hands resting on the table as he eyed Merin and Renarin in the soft light. “I don’t recognize them,” he said.

  “They’re here for an augury, Grandfather,” Kamp said, voice light-hearted despite the treatment he had received. “Noblemen. The distinguished man on the left is Lord Renarin Kholin, son of our great Lord Dalenar. And, unless I guess incorrectly, our other guest is Lord Merin Kholin—he who saved the king’s life on two different occasions. They are very important men.”

  The old man snorted. “What do they want?”

  “An augury,” Kamp reminded gently.

  The old man closed one eye, leaning forward to examine Me
rin a little closer. Then he grunted and bent down—teetering precariously for a moment—and hefted a small bag up from underneath the table and placed it on the table. He began working at its knots with two sets of gnarled fingers, a task that took him no small amount of effort—however, he swatted Kamp’s hands away every time the younger man reached to help.

  “Grandfather is one of our finest seers,” Kamp said as the old man finally pulled free the knot and began removing a set of worn wooden disks the width of a man’s fist. “They say that wisdom and age brings great power in seership, and that a man who—”

  “Shut up,” the old man snapped. He eyed Merin and Renarin again. “Who’s paying?”

  Merin paused. “I will, holy one. Uh, how much is the usual donation?”

  “It’s not a donation; it’s a payment,” the old man said. “And it’s fifty ishmarks.”

  Renarin snorted at the extravagant price, but Merin removed a sapphire of the appropriate value and set it on the table. Sight of the large gem finally made the old man perk up, and he shook himself slightly, adopting a more formal air. His fingers moved with a bit more dexterity, bespeaking a familiarity as Kamp handed him a large sheet of paper, which the old man proceeded to put down over the table’s top.

  Merin frowned, sitting back as the man flattened the large sheet, then set five candles at the table corners. This part was unfamiliar to Merin—the other seers had only drawn the disks from a bag, using the symbols on them to make predictions.

  Once the paper was flat, the old man arranged the wooden disks into several piles, all face down, their glyphs hidden. “Your name?” the old man asked.

  “Merin,” Merin said. “Merin Kholin.”

  The man reached into his bag again, riffling through a group of stones inscribed with glyphs. He selected one—the one inscribed with Riem, the basis for Merin’s name—then set it at the very center of the table. “Day of birth?” the old man demanded, distractedly pulling out a piece of black charcoal and scribbling a few numbers beside the stone at the center.