The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

Shinri paused, glancing down at her white seasilk undershift. He hadn’t said to remove it as well, but he could probably argue that it should be wrinkled. She could feel his eyes and his smile. The room felt quiet despite the physician’s calm voice, telling Ahven of the drugs he would give Shinri to feign morning sickness and to stop her woman’s issue.

  Ahven watched. He was waiting. A test? I need him to believe, Shinri thought. Believe I’ll do as he says, so he’ll leave me here. Alone.

  She removed her underclothing and wadded it up, dropping it in a pile. Then she sat on the bed, quickly pulling the bedding up and wrapping it around her. To the side, she saw Ahven’s eyes linger on her for a moment, then the physician drew his attention, and the king began speaking to the man in a low voice.

  Had she passed some sort of test, or had she simply encouraged his lusting? Shinri sat miserably, trying to wash away the feeling of his eyes upon her. Ahven said something to his companion, speaking in a voice too quiet for Shinri to hear. The physician nodded in response, waving his hand to the side in a gesture of emphasis. As the hand flickered, Shinri thought she saw something beneath the cuff of his shirt, something coloring the back of his wrist. An Elinrah tattoo.

  An Elinrah brother? Shinri thought. Coincidence? Or is the king involved with them? Before, when gloating over his ability to see through her submissiveness, Ahven had bragged of his ability to hide his intelligence for so long. And, despite the reputation of idiocy he had founded, he had still managed to seize power. The events seemed near-impossible, even for a brilliant man. If the Elinrah were backing him, however, it all suddenly became more plausible. Shinri focused, closing her eyes, trying to piece together what the king was saying to his companion.

  “Noise,” Ahven suddenly said in a louder voice. “Those outside expect to hear sounds from within, woman. I will not tell you again.”

  Sighing softly to herself, Shinri did as ordered, destroying any chance she had of eavesdropping on the conversation.

  The knowledge that Ahven had no intention of risking a child by her made Shinri’s nights pass a little less tensely. Unfortunately, the days only grew worse. Ahven had complete power over her, and he seemed to take amusement from expressing his control. He would order her to his rooms and have her sit naked on his bed while he worked on his maps and went over troop counts. He took her to social functions—even in the midst of war preparations, the nobility felt the need for occasional mingling. At each of these meetings, Shinri was told to keep her eyes down, to remain at his side, and never speak without direct permission.

  Shinri saw discomfort and fear in the eyes of the other noblewomen. Ahven employed no female scribes—he used monks in the open and Elinrah in private. Shinri heard little, since she was allowed minimal time for socializing, but her handmaidens reported some of the local gossip. The Veden women were concerned with their king’s behavior, primarily his treatment of Shinri. They whispered that he was dissatisfied with the power women held over Kanaran politics, and that he intended his treatment of Shinri to become the model. The Veden were a people dependent on tradition—they would not be easy to change. However, the generals and noblemen watched Ahven, and some of them displayed quiet approval.

  So it was that Shinri wasn’t the only one who was relieved when Ahven finally announced the army’s departure. The declaration sent a wave of anxiety through the soldiers and their commanders, and for the first time Shinri realized that, to many, the preparations might seem rushed. She had waited and prayed for Ahven’s departure, and each added day had seemed to drag like a winter highstorm. However, two weeks was not that long a time to move an entire army in through the Oathgate and to organize it in the city below.

  Ahven seemed to be waiting for something. Even after the army began to move down the slopes to the base of the Mount of Ancestors, Shinri saw Ahven in frustrated conference with his generals. He often glanced northward, his eyes uncharacteristically troubled. He looked toward Kholinar. Was he worried about Dalenar, or was it something else?

  It was about that time that Shinri realized she hadn’t seen the king’s Shin henchman in quite some time. With a feeling of dread, she realized she knew where he might have been sent. Ahven had focused a great deal of energy on capturing Ral Eram in secret, but someone had escaped. Lady Jasnah.

  Shinri’s anxiety returned tenfold. The Shin were said to be warriors of almost supernatural ability—if anyone could track Lady Jasnah’s escape, it would be such a man. If Shinri’s guess was correct, this man had already slain a half-tenset Shardbearers, slaughtered children, and mercilessly advanced his master’s domination of Vedenar. If such a creature had been sent to hunt Jasnah . . .

  Shinri wouldn’t let herself worry about such things. She had more pertinent problems—such as her own escape. She still had no idea how she would manage it. Perhaps expecting her plans, Ahven had set a special guard over the Oathgates. Ten men and one Shardbearer stood guard at all times, and none of them made any move to join the departing army. Even with the withdrawal, the palace hallways were still well-patrolled by soldiers, as were the ramps leading down to the city—not to mention the guards on the city walls themselves. Ahven obviously felt it worth the cost of a few thousand troops to maintain a hold on Ral Eram, and he was probably right. Still, the preparations made Shinri’s escape look less and less probable.

  However, she could do nothing before Ahven’s unyielding eyes. She needed to see him gone, sent to his unfortunate task with a surety of her submissiveness. So, when Ahven finally declared that he himself was riding to battle, Shinri prepared herself in her finest dress and jewelry to bid him a properly triumphant farewell.

  Ahven’s honor guard gathered on the palace plateau, along with several of the more important noblemen—including her father. When Ilhadal noticed her, his eyes didn’t linger. He hadn’t displayed indignation, or even offence, at Ahven’s treatment of her—she had expected neither. In fact, from the way her father had treated her when she was growing up, Shinri suspected that he highly approved of Ahven’s new etiquette.

  Ahven made his appearance in a suit of brilliant white Shardplate. Shinri didn’t recognize it—he had probably had the armorers paint and adorn it especially for the occasion. The helm bore a fan-like crest that came to several points, and the shoulderplates were draped with golden seasilk. The breastplate was embossed in the form of a magnificent palh-burst bearing the glyph pel—the symbol for intelligence. The opposite of idiot.

  Ahven was accompanied by two Shardbearers who had, until just recently, been common guards. They had been awarded the only two Blades captured during the taking of Ral Eram—Ahven had made a great display of them, but Shinri heard whispers that the same number of Blades had been lost to Jasnah’s escaping group.

  Ahven made no speech, nor did he acknowledge her—though she was certain he would have been angered had she not been there, with her ladies, kneeling on silken pads beside the palace entrance. He waved for his white charger and was moving to climb into the saddle when an approaching figure caught his attention.

  Shinri glanced up. A messenger in false Aleth blue scrambled up the palace ramp, then made his way to Ahven’s side and voiced a message. Ahven nodded once, waving for his entourage to halt their preparations. A few moments revealed the reason. A squad of horsemen, looking harried and fatigued in the afternoon light, clopped up the ramp. Shinri immediately recognized the man at their front.

  Ahven’s Shin assassin didn’t have the same worn look as the rest of his group. The man rode with lithe dignity, slipping off his beast before it even came to a halt. He was to Ahven’s side like a pre-storm breeze, washing across the stones and bowing before his master. Shinri perked up. She was too far away to hear their exchange, but she had a good line of sight to Ahven’s face.

  Whatever the Shin man’s message, it did not please the king. Shinri breathed in relief. Perhaps the man hadn’t been sent after Jasnah—but if he had, his mission had not found success. The Shin man stood, waving b
ack toward his squad of men. The soldiers moved aside, revealing what Shinri had assumed to be pack horses. Settled atop them were two bodies. Several of the party’s soldiers untied the bodies, and as one of them struggled lethargically, Shinri realized they were still alive. Captives, then, not corpses.

  One of the prisoners managed to stand on weak legs, and Shinri caught a shocking glimpse of the face. Even from a distance she recognized Renarin Kholin’s muted features. The other one, tossed groggily to Ahven’s feet, proved to be the young peasant Shardbearer, Merin Kholin.

  Probably not a Shardbearer any more . . . Shinri thought ruefully, looking at the poor boy’s condition. Her pity was immediately stamped out by another emotion—an irrational, yet still potent, anger.

  This was the man who had killed Tethren.

  It was foolish, and she realized that. Merin Kholin wasn’t really responsible for Tethren’s death—Ahven had somehow ordered her fiancé to his doom, and Merin had acted justly to try and protect his king. Yet, looking down at Merin, Shinri was ashamed to feel a kind of twisted satisfaction at his fate. The boy didn’t deserve her loathing, but he also didn’t deserve to bear Tethren’s Shardblade.

  Ahven didn’t lose his frown at the presented gifts, but he did seem placated slightly—as he should have been. If he intended to capture Alethkar, he would have to face Dalenar Kholin at some point. The Tyrantbane’s son and adopted ward would prove powerful bargaining gems, even against a man as noble and unyielding as Lord Dalenar. Ahven waved for several of the soldiers to bear Renarin and Merin into the palace while another man brought forth a Shardblade and proffered it before his king. Tethren’s Blade.

  Shinri felt a crawling chill as Ahven reached out and accepted the Blade, then shot a look in her direction. With an obvious motion, he summoned his own Blade, then removed the opal and placed it in Tethren’s Blade. The weapon immediately shifted, the strange Awakened metal melting and reforming like molten steel, until it was a copy of the king’s former Blade. Ahven presented his own now-discarded Blade to another member of his honor guard, but Shinri wasn’t paying attention. The thought of Ahven’s hand on Tethren’s Blade . . .

  Better Merin bear it than him, she thought with a sick feeling. There was no reason for Ahven to switch Blades—both would be identical when they bore his bonded opal. No reason at all except to make one final display of his power over Shinri. He controlled her past, decided the fate of those she loved, and sought a grip on her very emotions.

  Shinri glanced to the side. The soldiers were dragging Merin and Renarin into the palace.

  Into the palace. To be kept in one of the secure cells in the west-central wing. Ahven knows that the palace is the most secure building in the city—the best place to keep a pair of important political prisoners.

  It was also the place closest to Shinri. Swallowing her guttural dislike of the boy who had taken Tethren’s life, Shinri forced herself to consider advantages and facts. Merin Kholin was rumored to be a brilliant duelist—he had saved the king’s life twice—and while Renarin wasn’t the finest warrior in Alethkar, he had been trained in the great monasteries of Kholinar. And now these two men were being held just a few hallways away from Shinri’s own rooms.

  Ahven had just delivered her a means of escape.

  chapter 51

  Jek 8

  Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, felt a slight and discomforting surge of satisfaction at his failed mission. For the first time, Jek had been unable to fulfill his master’s will. Not that he hadn’t tried to locate the Lady Jasnah. Jek’s sense of honor was absolute—he could not sabotage his mission intentionally. He was required to use all of his facilities to serve his master’s will, for that was what Truth demanded.

  This time, however, no amount of competence had been enough to bring success. Perhaps the Lady Jasnah had avoided Jek’s scouts, or perhaps they had missed her by simple luck. More likely, she hadn’t gone northward at all—Jek had done a fairly thorough search of the area, extending as far toward Crossguard as he dared, and his scouts had discovered no trace of her passing.

  Regardless, the woman was safe from Jek’s blade. The satisfaction of guiltless failure gave him a brief smile as he rode beside his master, their horses marching at the head of the Veden honor guard. Ahven looked troubled, and he had a right to be. From all accounts, the Lady Jasnah was a masterful tactician. She would waste little time bringing news of Ral Eram’s fall to her brother.

  Ahven’s success was by no means guaranteed. Alethkar was wearied from war, true, but it was also armed with the spoils that came from a successful invasion. In addition, Ahven’s army didn’t represent the entirety of Veden might—he only had command of those armies that Talshekh had been able to raise. If King Elhokar were warned in time, there was a chance he could escape Ahven’s offensive, withdrawing to gather support and leaving the Veden forces exposed in the center of a hostile kingdom.

  Unfortunately, Jek had little practical knowledge of large-scale tactics. His clan was—or, rather, had been—the Nalenthatath, a Clan of the Knife. His training was not in battlefield warring. While he had the practical leadership training of any Shin lord—basic command skills focusing on small-squad leadership—his true focus had been in the arts of stealthy killing. The Nalenthatath won wars by executing the enemy commanders—as honorable a method as any other, in the eyes of the Shin. It had always amused Jek that the easterners considered themselves too ‘honorable’ to overtly use assassination as a practical method of warfare. Oddly, despite their sensibilities, the men who came into possession of Jek’s Bondstone seemed to have few qualms about using him to further their plans.

  Jek kept to his thoughts as Ahven’s party left through Ral Eram’s massive steel gates and began down the extended stone path leading toward the mountain’s base. There was so much stone. Moving away from the cliffside as they were, Jek suddenly became aware of the oppressive mountain looming above. The troop of men wound its way down the ramp-like path, cliffs to either side, leaving the First Capital behind on its ledge-like plateau sheltered in a massive rock crevasse.

  Was it any wonder that the easterners didn’t understand the sacredness of stone? There was so much of it here in the east that even Jek often found himself treating it as a mundane substance. He could almost forgive their heresies at times. Of course, at other times he felt overly-sensitive to the desecrated rock around him—as if he feared losing his sense of Truth, and could only maintain a hold on it through exaggerated piousness.

  Could there even be piousness to one such as he? There is no truth in this world, Ahven had claimed. The words had stayed with Jek all through his hunt for the Lady Jasnah. What good was Truth when it led Jek to commit atrocities? What good was honor when it gave a terrible man like Ahven such a marvelous tool in a Shin assassin?

  Jek had considered similar questions beneath other eastern masters, but never had a master pushed him as harshly as Ahven did. Blood dripped from Jek’s fingers even when they were clean. He knew that this very guilt was the purpose behind his punishment, a fitting judgement for one such as he. But, had the Holetental really understood the extent to which these easterners were willing to go?

  Several hours of riding didn’t provide any answers. Jek spent them in silence, the air growing increasingly hot as they descended the mountain. Yet the heat was different here in the east. It was dryer, especially in the summer. Here in the east, the Searing was a dangerous time. Groundwater was tainted and undrinkable, and rivers were low even within laits. Jek glanced up at the sky, and the angry sun overhead, glad that he wasn’t a peasant living in one of the many remote Rosharan villages.

  Ahven didn’t seem to mind the heat. He rode quietly, his ease on horseback just another item on the list of his educational irregularities. The king must have learned to ride in the same place he learned to wield a Shardblade and to perform a masterful oration. The quiet Elinrah brothers kept their distance from the Idiot King, probably to keep suspicions to a minimu
m. Yet once Jek determined to watch for them, he easily began to pick out signs of Ahven’s silent companions.

  There were some soldiers who hung too close to the Idiot King. Some minor couriers who were given too much leeway in the workings of the court and army. Some supposed stormkeepers who held conferences with Ahven that even Jek could not attend . . . Each of these revealed an Elinrah tattoo on his shoulder or forearm. The marks were easy to miss and even easier to hide, but Jek was trained to see that which others overlooked. Most people wouldn’t have made the connection—Elinrah were growing more common amongst even the upper class, especially in Vedenar, and the tattoos were hardly irregular. However, after what Jek had seen in the temple of Nale’Elin, he could not ignore the coincidence.

  As for the other things he had seen . . . well, he was not yet convinced. The children had acted like Onyxseers, true, but it was not so difficult a thing to mimic descriptions from records or stories. Besides, the alternative was almost too unsettling to consider. Ahven was an evil enough force on his own. If he were backed by the Holekalletap—the powers called ‘Epellion’ in the east—then he would present a danger such as Roshar had rarely known.

  As nightfall loomed, Ahven’s caravan approached his aggregated armies. The group was gathered in a secure valley, and was well-camouflaged for a force so large. Even Jek’s keen eyes had trouble discerning its presence from a distance. Of course, no amount of hiding would keep their secret if Lady Jasnah reached Crossguard. And she wasn’t the only danger—a passing merchant train, the eyes of a wandering peasant . . . any number of passing coincidences could doom Ahven’s expedition.

  “You were right,” Jek said. “You need to move quickly. The armies are committed—any more hesitance could doom the invasion.”

  Ahven looked up, eyeing Jek. The words were the first either had spoken during the five hour ride. “Lord Davar still thinks we’re moving too hastily,” the Idiot King noted. “He wanted to hold Ral Eram and gather strength, forcing Elhokar to come to us.”