The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Tenth day of Mar-Nolh,” Merin said.

  The old man paused. “A portentous day indeed,” he said. He looked back at the paper, holding his charcoal and frowning slightly. “Merin . . .” he mumbled. “Riem, Ezer, Rosh, Ish . . .”

  “Seventy-seven,” Kamp said helpfully.

  The old man hissed, swatting at the younger priest with a twisted hand. Then he proceeded to scribble the number beside the others. “All Forces, no Essences . . . another portent. You are a strange child indeed.”

  Merin blushed slightly, beginning to feel embarrassed. This wasn’t what he had expected at all. He glanced at Renarin, expecting to be confronted with skeptical eyes. The younger Kholin, however, sat with an interested posture, watching the old man’s markings with unblinking eyes.

  Numbers, Merin realized. Should have known those would interest him.

  “And so,” the old man said, studying Merin. “Why do you seek an augury, Merin Kholin—he who was birthed on a tenthday and named after the forces?”

  “We seek news of a friend,” Merin answered. “A friend we fear lost.”

  “This friend’s name?”

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

  “Ah,” the old man said, exhaling slowly. “Should have guessed that one, eh? Very well.” He reached into his sack again, pulling free a stone inscribed with the glyph shal, and set it on the table. “Would you know his date of birth?”

  “The thirty-ninth of Mar-Shin,” Renarin said.

  The old man nodded, scribbling numbers around Aredor’s stone as well. Once finished, he reached into his bag one last time and picked out a larger, perfectly-round stone with no markings on it. The others had been of some kind of granite, but this was a pure black—probably onyx.

  “It is in order,” the old man finally said, holding the onyx sphere in his left hand. “You may begin turning over the chips, one from each of the five piles.”

  Merin nodded, reaching forward and turning over the first wooden disk. This was more what he had expected.

  “Ah,” the old man said. “Khor, time and age. What is the next disk? Shal? I see. Pause for a moment.”

  Merin frowned, waiting as the man scribbled more on the tabletop, forming a cascading sequence of numbers from one stone to the other. “Not good, not good,” he mumbled. “I see danger. Danger indeed for the heir Kholin. Yes, danger and fighting. The next chip.”

  It was Riem, the symbol of unchangingness. This set the old man into a flurry of scribbling and mumbling.

  “Danger?” Merin asked with a frown. “That’s it? Of course there’s danger—he rides to war!”

  “Patience,” the old man snapped, idly rolling the onyx sphere in his left hand. “You have to give the numbers time!”

  Merin sat back with a huff. Renarin, however, continued to lean forward. He stood slightly, bending over the table and watching the old seer’s work.

  The old man eyed Renarin with annoyance. “Next disk,” he said testily.

  “Jez,” Merin said, after turning it over.

  “Hmm,” the old man said, scribbling. “I see . . . a difficult passage of time for House Kholin. I see divisions and storms, and . . . and would you sit back down!”

  Renarin didn’t respond. He stood with his face pressed nearly to the table, eyes scrambling across the old man’s numeric equations. “This is wrong,” Renarin whispered. “You leave holes . . . such big holes, and you wander like a man lost, or one who cannot see.”

  “Cannot see?” the old man demanded, swatting ineffectually at Renarin. “I’ve been a seer for six decades! Numerology takes time, practice, and age. What do you know of it!”

  Renarin ignored him. “But . . . I can’t see either,” he said. “You write the questions even more crudely than I, and you have no answers. You . . .” He trailed off, glancing upward—toward the old man’s left hand, and the sphere clutched therein.

  Both hands moved at once. Renarin, however, was far more spry. Moving with a dexterity Merin would have envied in the dueling ring, Renarin snatched the onyx sphere from the old man’s hand.

  “This is insufferable!” the old man said, swatting Renarin repeatedly with the empty sack. Renarin took the opportunity to grab the man’s discarded charcoal stick. The old seer hissed indignantly and stood. “My pride is offended. You tempt both winds and even the Almighty’s Heralds themselves! May the Answerer himself bring you ruin!” He ignored his grandson’s pleas, waving the young man away and beginning to hobble away from the table. He paused, however, then turned back and grabbed Merin’s sapphire. Then he huffed one last time and lurched his way from the room. Kamp followed with a worried look, shooting a bow back at Merin and Renarin before disappearing after the old man.

  “Well, that was brilliant,” Merin snapped. “It would help sometimes, Renarin, if you would try to be a little less strange. You even scared away an Elinrah priest!”

  “Hush,” Renarin said, eyes still on the table. He began to scribble on the paper, sweeping the wooden chips out of his way with a dismissive gesture. The disks flew from the table, knocking a candle to the floor and spraying wax across the dark blue stone.

  “Renarin?” Merin asked, standing and frowning slightly at the intensity in his friend’s eyes.

  Renarin ignored him, scribbling a few more numbers. He paused, looking down at the onyx in his hand, eyes awed. Then he turned back to the numbers.

  “By the winds . . .” Renarin whispered, almost as if in a trance. “He’s going to die, Merin. Aredor. He’s . . . going to die.”

  “What?” Merin asked. “Renarin, you can’t know that.”

  “I see it, Merin,” said the younger Kholin. “It’s here. Finally, I can see. Aredor is going to die fighting the king. Jezenrosh will lose. If only father had stopped him . . . but Aredor went the other way. North, not east. By river, not by land.” Renarin paused, then looked up at Merin, eyes mournful. “He’s doomed. My brother is doomed.”

  Merin shivered. “Renarin, I . . .” He trailed off as a group of priests in blue robes appeared at the door, their expressions agitated.

  “My lords,” one of them asserted. “Perhaps it would be best if you left now.”

  Renarin’s head snapped up. Sweat streamed down his brow, and he stared at the men with a disturbing frenzy. He began to shake slightly, like a man about to have a fit.

  “Yes, we should leave,” Merin said quickly. So much for the augury, he thought, regarding Renarin with worry. “Come on, Renarin.”

  Renarin held up the onyx sphere. “How much for the stone?” he demanded.

  “My lord?” the stocky priest asked.

  “What do you want for it?” Renarin asked. “What does it cost.”

  “My lord, the stone of a seer is—”

  The man stopped as Renarin pulled out his cloak pouch and spread its contents across the table. Three tenset coins glistened beneath the four remaining candles, an array of colors rubicon, hyacinthine, and azure.

  “That will be enough,” the priest said, eyes wide.

  “Enough, also, to forgive the incident this day?” Merin said, pushing Renarin from the room. “Lord Renarin has been of a strange temperament recently. The stress of his brother’s disappearance has been great.”

  “Of course, my lord,” the priest said, still staring at the table’s riches.

  Merin led Renarin from the temple, and the bright light seemed to restore a bit of his friend’s sanity. Renarin blinked, shading his eyes from the sun, the onyx sphere still clutched in his hand. He stood for a moment, then sighed, looking down.

  “I’m all right,” he said, noticing Merin’s concerned look.

  “Let’s get back to the palace and have something to eat,” Merin said. Renarin still looked a bit pale, his skin clammy.

  Renarin nodded. “I feel so strange.”

  “That means a lot, coming from you,” Merin said, trying a wan levity.

  Renarin, however, didn’t smile. He shook his head. “I
feel it still, Merin. Aredor is going to die.”

  “I worry about him too,” Merin said.

  “No, Merin. I know he is going to die.”

  Merin eyed his friend, looking for signs of another . . . whatever had happened before. Renarin looked to be his old self, however—though he was even more gloomy than normal. He remained that way through the entire walk back to the palace, though Merin tried to get him to talk about other topics—anything but Aredor.

  It didn’t work. And, as they walked, Merin found Renarin’s thoughts contagious. His uncertainty from before returned, his worries released from their brief captivity. He was no closer to knowing what he should do. He had still abandoned Aredor, and he had still broken with duty by not telling Lord Dalenar what he knew.

  At their rooms again, Merin ordered them a simple meal, hoping the sustenance would do Renarin some good. The boy quickly found his balcony, however, and stood upon it brooding.

  Merin felt little better. I need to make a decision, one way or the other, he realized. It’s the indecision that is destroying me. He felt like Aredor had looked that week before making the decision to leave.

  But what decision to make?

  What if there’s another answer?

  “Renarin,” he said, standing. “What was that you said about Aredor before? Going north, not east?”

  “When he left,” Renarin said idly, “Aredor said no horse would catch him—even though he knew that Father had taken all of the fastest horses with him for the messengers to use. Aredor shouldn’t have been able to stay ahead, not when Father had all the best stock. Yet he did. Father never found him. That’s because Aredor didn’t take a path anyone expected. He went north, then took the river east.”

  “But the river doesn’t flow strongly enough to carry traffic in the summer,” Merin said.

  Renarin shook his head. “I saw it, Merin. That’s what he did. I don’t know how, but he did it.”

  Merin opened his mouth to object, but paused. Long ago, just after Merin had been given his Shardblade, Aredor had told him something about Renarin. He notices things, Merin. Things regular people just don’t see.

  I’ve rarely known him to be wrong.

  “We need to go after him, Renarin,” Merin announced.

  Renarin looked up. “We can’t,” he said. “My father . . .”

  “We have no choice!” Merin said. “Look at us. We can’t stay here, worrying like this. He’s your brother and my friend. We can’t let him die alone.”

  Renarin stood quietly.

  “We won’t fight, though,” Merin explained, stepping closer and speaking quietly. “We’ll leave in secret, like Aredor, and follow him. Then, when we get there, we’ll convince him to come back. We won’t disobey Lord Dalenar’s command, but we also won’t break Aredor’s trust.”

  “We won’t be able to convince him,” Renarin said. “And besides, my father commanded that no one go to the war at all—we’ll be breaking his command if we leave without his permission.”

  “We’ll break the command, but not the honor of it,” Merin said. “Renarin, I can’t stay here any more. I have to go—this worrying is driving us both mad! It will work out. The Almighty will see to that.”

  Renarin didn’t look convinced.

  “Would you rather stay behind?” Merin asked.

  Renarin looked up, then shook his head. “Let’s go, then. Quickly, before I think about it too much.”

  chapter 40

  Taln 8

  Taln and Lhan crouched in a side chamber, the room lit only by a window on the far wall. Footsteps, yells, and the sounds of battle echoed through the palace’s stone hallways.

  Lhan’s breathing was quick. “What . . . what’s happening?” the monk demanded.

  “Someone has taken the Oathgates,” Taln said quietly from his position at the doorway. The outside hallway was empty. Taln turned from the hallway door and slunk across the room to the window, peeking outside. “They sent soldiers through to secure the palace.”

  He could see a large assemblage of soldiers gathering outside the window, right at the top of the ramp leading down into the city proper. The men appeared to be lounging idly, as if waiting for orders, but their postures were slightly forced. They were members of the invading army, sent to make certain no one escaped the palace and warned the people below. Whoever the invaders were, they worked efficiently. The ramp had been secured within minutes, and the attack was well-placed. The palace was probably understaffed with soldiers, most having gone with their various lords to join King Elhokar in his warmaking.

  Well, that way is cut off. There were at least fifty soldiers atop the ramp—far more than he would like to try fighting on his own without a Shardblade. He probably could have reached the ramp ahead of them, but he’d chosen to hide instead—fearing that Lhan wouldn’t be able to keep up. Apparently, that had been a poor decision.

  Lhan listened at the doorway a little longer, obviously trying to determine the validity of Taln’s words. Eventually, the monk joined Taln at the window. “Who could it be?” he asked nervously.

  Taln shook his head. “They’re Kanaran,” he said. “Either Veden or Prallan. Perhaps Jah Keved has attacked, or maybe some remnants from the conquered Prallan nations are trying to get revenge on your king. Their identity doesn’t matter to us—our job is to get past those soldiers and escape before the city is captured.”

  Lhan frowned. “We can’t go. We have to do something!”

  “Like what?” Taln said, leaving the window. The western ramp had been taken, but perhaps he could beat the invaders to the eastern ramp.

  “I don’t know,” Lhan admitted. “Don’t you care if the city falls?”

  “This city fell centuries ago,” Taln said frankly, glancing out the doorway and making certain the hallway was still clear. He paused, looking back and noting Lhan’s concern. “Look, if you want to help your countrymen, you have to escape the palace first. Get to the lower city with me, and you can raise the alarm if you wish. It matters not to me.”

  Lhan nodded, joining Taln as he crept from the room and began moving through the palace. He tried to stay to the periphery of the labyrinthine structure, away from the Oathgates. The invaders would have to bring in many soldiers quickly, secure the palace, then try and take the city gates by subterfuge. Ral Eram’s people would be accustomed to seeing large groups of soldiers moving through the streets—King Elhokar’s war preparations had been steady during the last few weeks.

  It was a daring attack, but a clever one. The First Capital was isolated in its cliffside location. An occupying force could hold the city with ease, assuming it gained control of both city walls and Oathgates.

  But how? Taln thought. How did they get through the Oathgate? Elhokar would have been a fool to leave his side open to invasion.

  It didn’t matter. True, the bickerings of men were harmful—divisiveness would lead to destruction when the Khothen came. But, for the moment, it didn’t matter to Taln who held Ral Eram. One unbelieving kingdom or another, it was the same.

  A sudden gasp from Lhan drew his attention. Taln paused, one hand against a stone wall as he listened for the sounds of battle. The monk’s face had grown pale, and he was looking down a side passage, toward something Taln couldn’t see.

  “What?” Taln hissed, joining the monk.

  He needn’t have asked. Bodies lay scattered through the hallway, blood pooling on the white marble. They wore the simple clothing of servants, their bodies hacked and mangled, obviously cut down as they tried to run.

  Lhan turned, retching. Taln stood silently, observing the carnage.

  “Why?” Lhan finally whispered.

  “They need to secure the palace,” Taln said quietly. “Killing the occupants is faster, and safer, than trying to capture them. This way no one escapes to raise warning.”

  Lhan turned away from the slaughter, slumping with his back against a wall, shuddering sickly. Taln stared on. The dead stared back.
<
br />   Oh, Almighty . . . He thought, bowing his head. Sometimes I wonder if they’re worth protecting.

  A scream sounded from behind. Lhan glanced up. The scream was close, just down the hallway.

  Taln didn’t turn toward the sound. He looked through the hallway of corpses, past the death toward a window at the far end. Through it, he could just barely make out the slope of the eastern ramp. It was empty.

  I need to go. This fight is not mine. I need to escape, so that I can—

  The scream sounded again. Lhan scrambled to his feet, apparently trying to judge the sound’s location. His hands shook as he scrambled over and picked up a discarded length of wood one of the dead peasants had tried to use as a weapon.

  Lhan paused, looking down at his weapon. The scream sounded again, and he looked up. His posture was nervous, his hands quivering. Then he struck off down the hallway toward the sound.

  Lhan would fight. Even though the monk had never held a weapon, he would fight and die to protect the one who screamed in fear. Lhan might be an idler, as he always claimed, but he was a good man.

  Some of them were definitely worth saving.

  Taln looked down at the bodies as the screams called to him, feeling an anger begin to burn in his chest. Three thousand years had men been on Roshar. Three thousand years of being killed by the Khothen, buffeted by highstorms, and surviving upon the harsh rocks of an inhospitable world. Three thousand years, and they still had not learned. They still had to kill.

  Quietly cursing himself for a fool, Taln turned his back on both corpses and windows. He stalked down the hallway, passing Lhan, following the sounds, and slammed open a door at the end.

  A group of the fake Aleth soldiers stood with corpses at their feet. A small cluster of terrified servants cringed near the far wall, women clutching children, men huddled and frightened. Those with the will to fight back already lay in their own blood.

  The door shook as it slammed against the far wall, and the soldiers looked up. Most held spears, though a sword-wielding nobleman directed their work. The officer waved toward Taln, barking a command in a language Taln almost understood.