The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  Meridas scowled as his opponent died. “You . . . peasant!” he hissed angrily. “That was against Protocol! You attacked a man already engaged in a duel!”

  Taln snorted, picking up the second Shardblade. He gestured toward the open door from whence the Shardbearers had come. Beyond, Jasnah could make out a small pile of corpses, all of them in servants’ clothing. “Men who would condone that receive no quarter from me,” Taln said, stepping toward Jasnah. He held out the second Shardblade to Kemnar. “I watched you fight to protect the lady. You are a man of skill and honor. Consider yourself promoted.”

  Kemnar’s eyes widened slightly. Even he, with his sarcasm and seeming indifference to noble politicings, would have dreamed of someday owning a Shardblade. It was an honor a nobleman as lowborn as he would probably never receive.

  He glanced at Jasnah, and she nodded slightly. Kemnar took the blade with reverent hands. Behind, Meridas’s expression darkened even further.

  Taln turned and held out the second Shardblade. “Now,” he said, “you will give me that Blade you hold in exchange for this one.”

  Meridas frowned in confusion, then glanced down and smiled, hefting his Blade. “I think not. This one suits me just fine.”

  “It was not a request,” Taln said. “That Blade was taken from me by force. I will have it back.”

  Meridas smiled, lowering the Blade to his side in his dueling stance. “You and I, then?” he said. “Shall we see how you do when you aren’t stabbing your opponent from behind?”

  “Very well,” Taln said, putting one foot back, raising his Blade.

  “Enough!” Jasnah snapped. “You would squabble with one another while the palace is being overrun around us, our people being slaughtered? Save your bickering for another time.”

  Meridas didn’t break form. Taln, however, had the decency to glance back with a small measure of guilt. He lowered his weapon.

  “Meridas,” Jasnah continued. “This man claims to know a secret way out of the palace. I suggest you come with us, unless you plan to fight Vedenar’s army on your own. Kemnar, gather the Shardplate.”

  Shocked from his stupor, Kemnar nodded and moved forward. Shooting a wary glance at Meridas, Taln joined Kemnar, quickly unfastening the magical straps and gathering the pieces of metal in the dead men’s cloaks.

  “You believe the madman’s claim?” Meridas said with a snort, strolling over to her.

  “Do we have any other options?” Jasnah asked pointedly.

  Meridas frowned, his—Taln’s—Shardblade disappearing from his hand in a curling breath of white smoke. Taln and Kemnar rose a moment later, dual cloaks full of Shardplate thrown over their shoulders, Blades in hand.

  “Let’s go,” Jasnah said, stalking back down the way they had come. Taln and Kemnar followed quickly; Meridas trailed with less enthusiasm. A few moments later, they reached the stairwell, and Jasnah pulled a lantern off the wall and led the way down a twisting, cramped stairwell. The truth was, she had never actually gone down them before. There was little reason for a high-ranking noblewoman to visit the cellars. As they reached the bottom, her lantern revealed a group of nervous, spear-wielding servants. Their faces flashed with relief as they recognized her.

  Jasnah scanned the group, and was surprised to realize that the numbers had swelled—other servants must have sought refuge in the cellars as well. There had to be close to a hundred people crowded between the wine-racks and bags of grain. Entire families huddled uncertainly, watching her with hopeful eyes.

  “All right,” Jasnah said, turning back to the stairwell as Taln and Kemnar reached the bottom. “Let’s see this passage, madman.”

  Taln pushed past her, dropping his pack of Shardplate. “Lhan, please find someone to carry that,” he requested. The monk’s eyes widened as he saw the gold-gilded metal beneath, and he glanced at Taln’s Blade with wonder. The crowd huddled away, whispering to one another as Taln walked toward the back of the room.

  Jasnah followed, surprised at the size of the cellars. They extended into the distance, a connection of catacomb-like stone rooms with great, unadorned pillars to hold them up. Taln wove his way certainly, moving past barrels of water, sacks piled to the ceiling, and boxes of spices. The crowd trailed behind, a ghostlike group of men and women, their eyes haunted. Many were probably familiar with the cellars—they knew, as Jasnah did, that there was no exit through them. What had Jasnah led them to, trusting the whims of a madman?

  Most of them would be dead without that madman, Jasnah reminded herself. As would you. He deserves to be heard, if only for that reason.

  Eventually, Taln paused inside a small, unused room. He waved Jasnah forward with the light. The rest of the group paused uncertainly behind, standing just outside the room.

  Jasnah stepped inside, the tattered remnants of her dress train leaving a trail in the dust. The room was perhaps ten feet by ten feet, too small to be of much use. Dark mold covered one wall, and a couple of broken crates rested in the corner.

  Taln pushed aside a couple of crate pieces, then wiped the dust from the back wall. It was crafted of worked stone bricks, like the rest of the cellar, their color a dull grey. He pressed against one of the stones.

  And, of course, nothing happened.

  Taln frowned. He pressed again, harder. “Something’s wrong,” he mumbled.

  Jasnah closed her eyes, exhaling softly.

  “This should open,” Taln complained quietly. “Chanaral himself designed the mechanism. It was crafted by the finest of Epoch Shapers—time should not have weakened it. The Blades still work, why wouldn’t this?”

  They were trapped. Dead. Perhaps . . . perhaps they could hide long enough, until night, and then sneak away into the city. It was a slim hope—the invaders had to know that people would be in the cellars.

  Footsteps approached, and a figure pushed its way through the crowd to Jasnah’s side. “Someone’s coming down the stairs,” Kemnar said urgently. “We barred the door at the bottom, but . . .” He said the words quietly, but the crowd was too close not to hear. Some of the people cried out, women clutching their husbands. Others looked down with despair.

  Jasnah glanced back at the madman. He stood on the left side of the small room, wiping at the mold covering the far wall. Beside her, Kemnar rushed over and grabbed the cloaks full of Shardplate, then disappeared back in the direction of the stairwell.

  “Taln,” she said. “We have to fight. Leave it—there is no passage.”

  The madman ignored her. “There!” he said, almost to himself, breaking away what appeared to be a piece of aged mortar. “But, what is the purpose of this?”

  “Taln!” Jasnah snapped. Then she paused. Something glittered beside Taln’s hand. She frowned, stepping closer, holding up the light.

  A shining black gemstone was set into the stones. Even as Jasnah approached, she could hear its Tone begin to hum in her mind. Obsidian. Her Polestone.

  “What . . . ?” she asked. “Why is that there?”

  “It’s a lock,” Taln said with a frown. “Like the ones on the Oathgates. I don’t know where it could have come from—it wasn’t here last Return.”

  From behind, a series of rhythmic thumps echoed through the cellars—the sound of axes striking the stairwell door. “Time is short, my lady!” Kemnar’s voice called in the distance.

  “We’ll have to cut through the wall,” Taln said, turning from the obsidian and raising his Shardblade. “Without an Awakener to Stroke the gemstone, we can’t open the door. This will leave an opening for our enemies to follow, but perhaps the other Shardbearers and I can hold the gap long enough to . . .”

  He trailed off as Jasnah closed her eyes, listening to the call of the obsidian. It was a cool, clear Tone in her mind. So familiar . . . enticing. She took the Tone of her own soul, rubbing it against that of the gemstone, calling forth its music. Even without opening her eyes, she knew the obsidian had begun to glow.

  A rumbling shook the room. Jasnah opene
d her eyes, then stepped back as a portion of the wall in front of Taln fell away, throwing chips of mortar and dust into the air. It slid back into the wall, revealing a dark passage beyond. Taln stood, Blade lowered, regarding her through unreadable eyes.

  Jasnah glanced behind self-consciously. She hadn’t touched the Obsidian, however. To anyone else, it would have appeared that Taln had opened the door. Hopefully.

  “Get the wounded into the passage!” Taln commanded, waving at the gawking servants. “The rest of you, gather whatever supplies you can. We’ll need lamp oil, grains, and water. Hurry!”

  Jasnah stepped aside, letting the servants begin to scramble through the opening. Kemnar returned a moment later, wearing the golden suit of Shardplate. He paused, staring at the opening, then ran back to get Meridas and the other soldiers. The axes continued to fall in the background.

  Taln still watched her. Jasnah glanced down, not wanting to meet his eyes. A few minutes later, supplies gathered, the last of the peasants rushed into the hidden passage. Kemnar clinked past, as did Meridas, who had obviously claimed the other suit of Plate. Eventually Taln waved her through. She strode through the doorway, followed by the madman.

  The passage was of worked stone, much like the cellars. Yet, the stones here seemed . . . different. More aged, if that was possible. Taln pressed a stone on the wall, and the hidden door rumbled closed behind them, sealing off the cellars even as the sounds of men yelling echoed closer and closer.

  The servants held their lanterns nervously in the dark. Taln waved them to move forward, straight ahead, into the darkness. The stone sloped downward, and Jasnah realized that she had no idea where they were going.

  “Where does this lead?” She hissed at him.

  “Down,” Taln said simply, walking forward.

  Jasnah sighed, following him, last in line. She paused a second later, however, as she noticed a side passage. It appeared to be the only one in the corridor. She held her lantern high, revealing a door in the distance.

  It was beautiful. Worked of metal and gemstones, it sparkled in her lanternlight. She could make out the pattern of the Double Eye set in its face, marked by ten massive gemstones at the Pole positions. Even from the distance, she could hear them humming slightly in her mind.

  “Come on,” Taln said, appearing again at her side.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  Taln paused, his eyes quiet as he regarded the door. “It is nothing,” he finally said. “Come.”

  Hesitantly, Jasnah allowed herself to be led away, into the dark passageway and the bowels of the mountain.

  chapter 42

  Dalenar 3

  The twenty dueling forms were ancient—older even than most Shardblades. Formalized lore, taught to students just after they began training with the sword, explained that Kanaran dueling had been developed by the Heralds themselves. Nale’Elin, the finest duelist of the ten, was said to have set up the system as a way for men to prepare for the coming of the Stormshades by fighting and training without fracturing the Epoch Kingdoms through war.

  Dueling was the first and primary Masculine Noble Art; all lords were expected to learn its secrets. And so, Dalenar trained. Sparring was familiar—the one great constant in his life. Brothers, wives, and children might die. Monasteries and their morals might have to be left behind for war. But there was always the duel. Peace or strife, ill-temper or good, Dalenar always took the opportunity to spar—even if it refused to calm him as it once had.

  Brother Mazinchal fought with Blade and Plate, one of three prized sets owned by Shieldhome. Mazinchal was good. He fought with a subtle variation of Garnet Form—third century Deniz line, if Dalenar remembered correctly. Garnet was a solid, straightforward Form that focused on single-hit wins. Mazinchal was more defensive than most Garnets, however, mixing a bit of Obsidian in for misdirection. It made for a fine combination, one that Dalenar had always respected.

  The sparring did not last long—bouts against Garnets never did. Dalenar won, scoring a second blunted strike against Mazinchal’s shoulder. At the end, Mazinchal removed his helm, waving for a young monk to bring them water.

  “That’s three out of four, my lord,” the monk noted as he sipped from the ladle. He was a husky man with powerful legs and a surprising quickness about him. Like most Birthgiven monks, he bore no scars from true battle, but that was no reason to presume him inexperienced.

  “The winds favor me today,” Dalenar said simply.

  Mazinchal shook his head. “One wonders if you even benefit from sparring here anymore, my lord. I can beat nine out of ten Topazes—Garnet is strong against it, you know. But you . . .”

  Dalenar accepted the ladle, not responding. Garnet was strong against Topaz, true—the first focused on quick, explosive kills, the later on endurance and precision. Garnet was a Form for duels; Topaz was a Form for the warrior who expected to fight a half-tenset different duels on the battlefield, bouts waged beneath a hot sun with spearmen waiting to attack the victor.

  “If I may be so forward, my lord,” the monk noted, waving the young water-carrier away. “You are as fine a master as this monastery has ever known. Perhaps you should consider taking students.”

  “Perhaps when better days come, brother Mazinchal,” Dalenar said.

  “Ah,” the monk said, bowing his head. “Forgive me, my lord. I momentarily forgot your . . . distractions.”

  Dalenar waved dismissively, indicating that Mazinchal forget the supposed offense. The monk bowed and retreated, allowing two younger monks to remove his Plate so it could be used by another. Dalenar stood in the sun, sweat from the sparring rolling down his cheek. Mazinchal’s comment was the closest anyone had come to mentioning Aredor’s disappearance since the discovery five days before. Monks and lords alike stepped softly around Dalenar, none wishing to acknowledge his shame.

  Dalenar wished such a luxury upon himself. Aredor’s betrayal—and that’s how Dalenar had to regard it, as a betrayal—had undermined whatever authority Dalenar had hoped to maintain through neutrality. How did it look for a lord to make a command, only to have his own heir flagrantly disobey?

  Even worse than the political embarrassment, however, were the other repercussions—punishments that must fall as soon as Aredor returned. Did the boy realize the position in which he had placed his own father? For Dalenar to keep his oath—an oath made before an official emissary of the king—he would have to disinherit his own son.

  Dalenar closed his eyes, sighing quietly to himself. And who did that leave? Renarin, openly stripped of his Blade by the king? Dalenar had no illusions about Renarin’s reputation. Dalenar’s tribute lords and Shardbearers would undoubtedly follow the boy out of loyalty to Dalenar’s memory, but such loyalty dulled over time. It was not a good foundation for rule. Perhaps, once the shame of his act was forgotten, Aredor could be reinstated. It was unlikely, however, that the lords would forget recent events. In their minds, Aredor would be forever the boy who had ignored his father’s command. How could Aredor command their oaths when he himself had so flagrantly broken his own?

  Not for the first time, Dalenar wished for Sheneres’s calm, understanding counsel. The boy would have made a wonderful lord, far better than his father. Sheneres had been able to make peace without creating enemies, and could give commands that men followed out of desire, not just duty.

  Another monk was stepping forward to spar—they knew that Dalenar liked to vary his opponents. Dalenar stretched his hand to the side to begin summoning his Blade, but paused. A litter was approaching the monastery; it was constructed of fine darkwood and laced with light pink seasilk, and the bearers wore Dalenar’s own insignia. He made a motion to his sparring partner, and the man stepped back, nodding deferentially as Dalenar strode across the sands to meet Kinae.

  She rarely visited him during his sparring time. Though he had never forbidden her, Kinae somehow sensed that Dalenar saw the monastery as a place of . . . refuge. Escape. And, despite her innocence,
she obviously knew that he found her one of the things from which he needed that escape.

  The litter-bearers stopped near the entrance to the monastery, where several of Dalenar’s attendants stood, waiting for commands or messages. The bearers lowered the litter, and Kinae stepped out, swathed in regal seasilks suited to a more mature woman. She glanced uncomfortably around the grounds, where monks had stopped their sparring to regard their future lady.

  “My lord,” Kinae said in her formal voice, “we just got a messenger who says that my father is coming to Kholinar.”

  “Your father?” Dalenar asked with surprise. “How many days away is he?”

  “Not days, my lord,” Kinae said. “The messenger said he’d be here within the hour.”

  Dalenar gritted his teeth so the men wouldn’t hear him curse. Lord Echathen of Khardinar was a fine man and an excellent battlefield commander, but he despised being fussed over. He often complained that he’d rather eat with his men than dine at a regal feast, and absolutely loathed protracted ceremonies. He was, Dalenar reflected, much as Dalenar himself would be, had he not been forced to grow up as a brother and uncle to kings.

  “Gather my Shardbearers,” Dalenar commanded one of his attendants. “Pull them from baths and dining if necessary. I want at least a tenset of them there to greet Lord Echathen.” He pointed at another man. “Order the cooks to prepare for a feast—simple food, without much garnish.” A third man. “Warn Lord Valan of Echathen’s arrival, he’ll know what other arrangements to make.” Dalenar had learned early in his career that he needed a good palace steward to care for the details of pageantry that most nobility expected of a Parshen.

  “My lord,” Kinae said under her breath. “I need to talk to you where others can’t hear. Fast!”

  Dalenar paused. Kinae was getting better at femininely masking her emotions—though how she was learning such things without being someone’s ward was beyond him. However, now that she had spoken, he could see the barely-contained urgency in her eyes. She could have sent a messenger to bring him word of her father’s impending arrival, yet she had found it necessary to come herself. Whatever she wished to tell him, it was important to her.