The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  “But, that man,” Merin said, pointing as their guide ducked into the building, his voice echoing inside. “You trust him?”

  “I’m not sure,” Renarin said. “You might want to . . .” he nodded toward the horses.

  “Right,” Merin said, reaching back and pulling his Shardblade free from their packs. It created an immediate disturbance as dockworkers paused in their loading, staring at the massive blade. “So much for anonymity,” Merin whispered, resting the Blade on his shoulder and walking toward the dockhouse.

  Selsen popped back out before they could step inside. “Hurry!” he said. “Follow!” And he was off again.

  Merin turned back to Renarin with a resigned look, and both followed after the man. The dockhouse sides opened behind them as a group of workers pulled back the wooden gates. This particular building was fortunate enough to be built close enough to the river that even the receded waterline abutted its sides. However, Merin’s suspicions about the river’s depth were proven true as Selsen leaped into the river. He was a short man, and the water only came up to his knees.

  “Hurry, lads!” Selsen yelled at the dockhouse. A group of ten young men were pulling a small vessel out of the housing. It looked something like a sleek barge. It was wide and flat, tapering to a point at the front. It slid slowly into the water, where the young men continued to tug on ropes, drawing the vessel farther out into the river.

  “What is that?” Merin demanded of the little man.

  “A ship!” Selsen said. “Jern, Reklan, get their things and stow them on the Calmness. You two, my lords, should hurry up.”

  “Into the river?” Merin asked. “You mean for us to walk out there with you?”

  “Never mind getting your feet wet,” the little man said with a chuckle. “The rest of you will join them soon. Come on!”

  The little man turned and jumped forward, following his pullers deeper into the river. Eventually the ship began to float—barely. The waters came up to the pullers’ chests as they neared the center of the river, out beyond the dock’s protective embankments.

  “By the winds . . .” Merin whispered. “He’s a Stormrider! That’s what the ship is!” As if to mark Merin’s words, the ship suddenly unfurled a pair of thick, rectangular sails set in stout, stumpy masts. “I’ve heard stories of them,” Merin said. “Men who try to ride the waves of a highstorm’s flood. Some in ships, others on barges, some even in barrels.”

  “Indeed,” Renarin said, then promptly stepped off the dock to begin wading toward the ship.

  “Renarin!” Merin said, reaching out. Behind him the packmen had unloaded their horses and were moving into the river as well.

  “Hey!” Merin snapped as he saw one carrying his bundled set of Shardplate. The men ignored him, however, in their hurry to join their companions.

  “Quickly, young lords!” the stumpy man yelled from the river’s center. “Very little time now!”

  Merin turned toward the ominous western sky. Then he turned east, looking down the lait valley with its weak river. That river would soon be filled with a crashing wave of water. The lait was too wide for it to be of much damage to the city or docked ships, but a vessel left out when the floodwaters came . . .

  All of the Stormrider tales ended the same way: with a destroyed ship and a set of dead occupants. Told around the hearth they had been funny tales to a young boy who had never seen river or lait, and the storytellers had always exaggerated the folly of those foolish enough to try and survive sailing during a highstorm.

  Merin closed his eyes as Selsen called for him again. I’ll probably make one boulder of a tale, he thought. The young soldier who saved the king, then got himself killed trying to Stormride!

  He stepped into the water anyway, following after Renarin. “This is stupid!” he called at his friend. “Renarin, I’ve seen the floodwaters in Kholinar! No ship could survive that! Renarin!”

  Renarin had reached the vessel, and Selsen stood on one side helping him up. The air was already cooling, the winds picking up slightly, and the riverwater seemed to be moving more swiftly.

  “It’ll be all right, young lord!” Selsen said. “I’ve done this twice already!”

  “It’s madness!” Merin insisted.

  “No, you see,” Selsen said as Merin approached, “I know the secret. Everyone else tries to ride the wave of water that comes with the storm. But us, we’re not going to do that. The Winds! They’re the key. They’ll push this ship forward even in three feet of water! The sails are angled; they lift us up, and we skim just on the top of the water. Have you ever skipped rocks on the river, young lord?”

  “No,” Merin said flatly.

  “Oh. Well, you’ll see what I mean soon enough. Come on up.”

  Merin stood in the cool water, staring at the vessel. It was so thin, so frail. Though its well-built sails gave an illusion of strength, Merin had felt summer highstorms.

  Renarin was letting two of the servants lash him to a seat near the side of the vessel. “Come on, Merin,” he said, eyes alight. “I told you he went by river, and I was right! I saw it! I was right!”

  “This is madness,” Merin muttered again, but didn’t complain as two dockhands hoisted him onto the deck. He stood dripping as one motioned for him to lash down his Shardblade.

  Selsen stood, a broad—almost maniac—smile splitting his face. “The highstorms are like giant waves, you see,” he whispered with an eager voice. “Massive waves of wind and water that sweep across the land. First east to west, then back west to east again, reversing direction with each storm. They’re like . . . like a broom being pulled across the stones. We’re just going to let ourselves be a speck of dust caught in that broom’s tines.” He winked. “Trust me. It’s terribly fun!”

  “Terrible,” Merin said sickly. Somehow he suspected this was going to be far worse than the time Aredor had made him gallop on horseback.

  Two men lashed him into place, then they began adjusting ballast, the captain yelling at them to be quick as he watched the oncoming storm with a mixed nervous excitement.

  “Here she comes!” Selsen finally yelled. “Back, lads! Out of the floodway!”

  The dockhands scattered, leaving the insane vessel bobbing slightly in the shallow waters. Merin turned with apprehension as a rushing sound approached. He could see the rainwall streaking toward them. Behind it roared a massive, crushing wave of rumbling liquid. It frothed and beat upon itself like a pulsating beast of brown and white, its howl that of screaming winds.

  “The only trick to this all is steering!” Selsen called. “If I take us the wrong direction, we’ll be caught in the winds and ripped to pieces!”

  Merin gulped. “What do we do if that happens!” he screamed over the water’s roar.

  Selsen smiled, catching Merin’s eye. “If that happens, lad,” he bellowed, “hold your breath!”

  The winds hit a second later.

  Vorinism didn’t speak much of the afterlife. The monks said that it was not man’s place to worry about the next life, but that his focus should be on this one. The mortal life was where man faced his challenges—and to the Vorins, those challenges were manifest in the danger of the Stormshades.

  The Returns were finished, Vorinism now taught, but there was much that could be learned from the past. The Khothen themselves were a metaphor. When the Stormshades threatened, men had been forced to live within the precepts of society, not creating chaos or fighting against other men—for all of humankind had a far greater enemy to face. Men needed that same unity in everything they did. If one pressed the monks to speak about the afterlife, they simply explained that living well—remaking oneself by transforming the Ten Carnal Attributes into the Ten Divine Attributes—would assure a man rewards.

  The Elinrah priests were more forthcoming. They whispered of the Almighty’s Dwelling, the radiant gathering of stars that shone in the night sky. The Dwelling was said to be at the very center of that collection of stars, where the points of ligh
t were so thick that one couldn’t distinguish space between them. That place of light and peace was where the souls of good men would find rest.

  There were other places too. One, Khothar, was a place of fire and smoke. Khothar was the land of the Stormshades—and the Elinrah taught that this was a land where the souls of men who did not follow the Almighty were punished. There was a place even worse, however. The Deep. A place reserved for men who professed allegiance to the Almighty, but who were evil in their hearts. This was a place of special suffering, a land of dark coldness. A land of madness.

  Merin hadn’t expected to find himself there.

  But where else could he be than the Deep? What had he done that he would lie bound, his screams lapped up by the highstorm’s roar, his face beaten by both rains and the crashing waves from the river below? The wind of the tempest pushed from behind, but it was doubled by passing air to the sides, a wind created as their boat moved at a ridiculous speed over the waters.

  Cities, dark from the clouds overhead, blipped past like drops of forgotten rain. If men in them watched the river, they might have seen fools caught in a perpetual roar of destruction. They might have heard screams of terror over the wind. But they probably didn’t.

  Fortunately, unconsciousness took Merin before madness could.

  The feeling of wet soreness that awakened him was worse, even, than the pain he had felt on his second day in the army. Merin felt as if a tenset of spearmen had taken their practice weapons and beaten him repeatedly. He groaned, water dripping from his mouth. He would have vomited, but he had freed his stomach of its contents before the first few minutes of travel had passed.

  “Ah, first time’s the worst, you know!” Selsen’s voice quipped from a short distance away.

  Merin opened sodden eyes, lifting his face from the wooden plank. His bonds had been loosed, but he could barely move anyway.

  “Hand me my sword,” he mumbled. “I’m going to kill you.”

  Selsen laughed. Merin groggily located the man standing on the deck a short distance away, fiddling with some ropes near the sails. “Thought we’d overshoot there for a moment! Almost couldn’t get these knots undone. That’s the really tricky part. Anyone can start, but stopping . . . well, that takes a smooth hand. Have to find an open place, where the stormflood weakens, then cut the sails and ride it out. But we made it. My men should have seen us pass—they’ll be here soon.”

  Merin managed to sit. His head hurt worst of all, and he blinked in the waning light. It was dusk, and they seemed to be floating on a random section of the river, no buildings in sight. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Near Jeznarn,” the man said. “About fifty miles north of Crossguard.”

  Merin froze, pain forgotten for a moment. “Fifty miles north of . . . but, that trip could take weeks on foot! How long were we . . . ?”

  “Usually takes about five hours,” Selsen said happily.

  Halfway across the kingdom in five hours. Merin had marched that same distance in the army, and had taken more than three weeks.

  Selsen noticed his wonder. He waddled over, then stooped down, grinning. “This is it, you see, young lord? The future! No more waiting for messengers on horses, no! We have a new way of traveling. New, bright, and wondrous!”

  “New, bright, and insane,” Merin mumbled, rubbing his bruised right arm. “Besides, what if you want to send a message south instead of east or west? Or, what if you want it delivered during the summer, when days pass without storms? In fact, what if you don’t happen to live near a lait at all!”

  Selsen rubbed his chin. “I’m working on a way to do it without the river,” he said. “Though I haven’t quite decided how to do it without the storm. That part’s kind of central to the strategy, eh?”

  Merin lurched to his feet, stumbling over to where Renarin still lay, wet and unconscious. “You’re crazier than a rock with no name,” Merin said, patting Renarin’s cheek and trying to wake him up.

  “Ha! You don’t know how lucky you are! Why, poor Aredor, he had to come on the big ship!”

  “The big ship?” Merin asked, turning.

  “Sure,” Selsen said. “This gal, the Calmness, is the design ship. I built it first as a kind of model, then built the larger version that Aredor rode. He had so many men with him that we couldn’t fit them all on the little ship! Safer, true, but not half as exciting!”

  Merin closed his eyes. Ignore him. Ignore him. You’re alive, and you’re near Crossguard. He turned back to Renarin, who was beginning to stir.

  Renarin opened his eyes, groaning. “So this is what they do to boys who disobey their fathers,” he mumbled as Merin helped him up. He paused, freezing, then reached for his pocket with an urgent motion. He pulled free the onyx sphere with a sigh of relief.

  “Ah, there they are!” Selsen said, pointing toward a group of riders descending the lait slope. “They’re good men. Much obliged, like I am, to Lord Aredor’s generosity. We’ll give you a pair of horses to replace the ones you left at the Perch, and you can be on your way. You could be to Crossguard in a few days, if you ride hard.”

  Merin sighed at the thought of more traveling. He looked at Renarin, who didn’t look much better.

  But Renarin was right. Aredor did come by river. A clever guess, given what Aredor had said back in Kholinar, or . . . something else?

  “Let’s go,” Renarin said. “We need to find him as quickly as possible.”

  chapter 45

  Jasnah 10

  At first, Jasnah thought that the spark of sunlight was a trick of the caves. During their week-long passage through darkness she had occasionally seen promising glints of light up ahead, only to discover a shard of quartz jutting from the cavern wall, its crystalline surface deceptively reflecting their lanternlight. She had almost begun to think the caverns eternal, that she had led the frightened palace servants from a quick slaughter to a slow, creeping death by starvation. The mountain was an oppressive tyrant around them, its endless passages misleading, almost maddening. Surely men were not meant to delve its secrets. This place with its dripping waters, its twisted rock formations, and its darkened corners should be death to those who arrogantly thought to navigate its paths.

  One thing, however, kept the servants from bending beneath the weight of uncertainty and gloom. Taln always seemed to know where he was going. When they reached a merging of caverns or tunnels, he instantly picked a direction, prodding them on with his sheer force of decisiveness. Men did not grumble when Taln led, and women did not question. Jasnah was amazed at how easily they followed, how quick they were to smile and forget their pains when the daily march was through. Theirs should have been a desolate company—their kin slaughtered, their home ransacked, their lives in question. Instead of despair, however, she saw in them a stalwart determination. And, with resignation, she could only determine one source for their resilience. They believed him.

  Taln guided them firmly. He cared for their wounded, showing a surprising level of medical proficiency. He spoke to them with confidence, ignoring Meridas’s frequent suggestions that the troop was headed to its doom. Taln spoke of Heralds and Stormshades, of the Return and the need to defend mankind. Jasnah cringed at every such profession, his mental problems forcing her to acknowledge that despite his competence, he was not a man who could be trusted with extended leadership. Many of the servants, however, didn’t share her apprehension. She could blame them little—considering their sufferings, any hint of hope was of value. She became certain, however, that when . . . if . . . they escaped the caves, she would need to adopt a firmer stand with Taln, lest he infect the others with his delusions.

  Meridas presented his own problem. Her refusal to recognize their wedding had angered him, and though he was civil, she could see his frustration. Though he was by far the ranking nobleman in the group, he had been wrong about the passages, and couldn’t very well demand leader-ship when he didn’t know the way. His barbs against Taln were plentiful and snide,
but he didn’t attempt to give flagrant commands—he was clever enough to understand that the madman was their only chance to escape. Indeed, Meridas found himself isolated by necessity. There were few nobles in the group, and besides Jasnah and Kemnar, none were very high in rank. Kemnar’s guards were all nineteenth or twentieth Lords—professional guards, well beneath Meridas’s consideration. Jasnah’s ladies-in-waiting were little better. That only left two sixteenth lords, palace couriers who had been absorbed into the group during the escape. Meridas quickly appropriated these two to be his adjuncts, but they were hardly fitting confidants.

  Despite Meridas’s cool demeanor, Jasnah could see that the situation grated upon him. He didn’t like feeling subordinate, and he shot occasional hateful looks at Taln. Once the group reached safety, Meridas would also have to be controlled, lest he act on his frustration and try to kill Taln.

  So, when the sunlight ahead was finally confirmed, Jasnah knew she had to act quickly. She pulled herself up, trying not to think about her bruised feet and aching muscles. Even as the citizens piled from the cave opening, exulting in the open sky and waning evening light, Jasnah approached Meridas and Taln, who stood at the back of the crowd. The two men were eyeing each other with hostility—their reasons for truce had just expired.

  “No,” Jasnah commanded.

  The men glanced at her, but kept wary watch on each other. Meridas’s hand was at his side, white smoke curling as his Blade was summoned.

  “Stay out of this, Jasnah,” Taln said. “I will try not to kill him.”

  Meridas smiled at that.

  “Why do you need that sword so badly, Taln?” Jasnah asked. “Aren’t you worried that he’ll kill you? Who will fulfill your quest if that happens?”

  Taln shook his head, dismissing Jasnah’s argument. “The odds now are not as they were at the feast. I need that sword. I’ll have to risk death for the good of the very quest you mention.”