The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  Except . . . this time, Kemnar had been right. You have to trust people sometimes. Who? The madman who thought himself a demigod? The oily man who thought to own both her bed and her brother? The servant who was no longer a servant, a man who thought so little of her judgement that he simply avoided asking questions that he knew she’d answer in a way he didn’t like? No, trust was not something she would easily give again.

  Yet, she no longer had a heart to chastise Kemnar. He was right—he had to make his own decisions now. He had entered the game. He was a player now, no longer a pawn. He had to learn that.

  And so did she.

  chapter 54

  Merin 12

  Aredor was dead.

  Merin had seen men die before. Despite superior equipment and training, the Aleth spearmen had hardly been immune to danger. Arrows had claimed their share, and Prallan spears an equal portion. Heavy infantrymen, with maces and hammers, had occasionally wreaked havoc on Merin’s line. And, even more rarely, his companions had faced the terrifying Blade of the Shardbearer. He had lost squadmates, even friends, to that near-unstoppable force.

  But Aredor’s death was different. Aredor was . . . something more. He had been so confident and so capable. Everyone knew Aredor was one of the best duelists in Alethkar; Merin had seen his performances both on the practice field and while fighting the assassins that night of the dueling competition.

  Aredor represented nobility—the new nobility, the truth that Merin had learned it to be. Not distant or ponderous, but affable and helpful. Aredor had bespoken a simple honor which went beyond words read by monks or scribes, a goodness even the stories hadn’t quite been able to capture. Aredor was . . . he was like Lord Dalenar. Such men weren’t supposed to be mortal.

  Merin shivered slightly, leaning against the corner of his cell, the flats of two different walls scraping his back. The room was bare, without furniture or even blankets; the guards had only given him a rusting chamberpot and a small bowl to hold his meals. The room was barely tall enough for him to stand, and he could cross from one side to the other in five paces. He hadn’t been given any opportunity to explain himself—the guards who brought his food never spoke to him. King Elhokar obviously felt no need to demand information from his captives—he just wanted Merin to suffer.

  And Renarin too, Merin thought sickly. If I was going to get myself into this, I could have at least left poor Renarin behind. He had heard nothing of the younger Kholin—Merin couldn’t tell if there were any other cells in the hallway, but if there were, Renarin hadn’t answered to his calls.

  Merin shivered again, pulling his cloak close. At least they had let him keep that. His cloak—Lord Dalenar’s cloak. Lord Dalenar, who had just lost his second of three sons. Did he know yet? How would he react? He’ll fight, Merin thought. He’ll have to. How could the king do such a thing, putting his cousin’s head upon a spear like that? Aredor saved the king’s life that night. It—I could barely duel a blind man. Aredor defeated those Shardbearers. And now he’s dead.

  Hopefully, Aredor had died in battle. Even King Elhokar couldn’t have been cruel enough to execute his own cousin. But . . . Jezenrosh was the king’s cousin too, and the king had risen against him. Aredor had believed the king was wrong—had believed it strongly enough to disobey his father’s commands. What was it he had said the day of his departure?

  There’s something very convenient about the way those assassins struck, giving the king a perfect opportunity to move against Crossguard. Could a man be so eager for war that he would exaggerate an attempt on his own life?

  Aredor’s desiccated head, lit by uncertain torches, was an image not easily forgotten. Even if the king hadn’t gone to war under false causes, then he had at least been responsible for Aredor’s death and desecration. This was the man Merin supposedly served—the man the ballads, and The Way of Kings, said was supposed to be the most honorable man in the realm.

  He was also the man whose life Merin had helped save on two separate occasions.

  It didn’t make sense. Why would the Almighty preserve King Elhokar’s life under such remarkable circumstances, only to let him act the tyrant upon his own people? What of Merin’s supposed heroism? His great deed, the salvation of the king and earning of his Shardblade, suddenly seemed tainted. Merin’s nobility was linked to that of the king—if Elhokar was unworthy of his station, then that transformed Merin’s act from one of holy bravery into something more like random misfortune.

  The questions bothered him so much that he actually asked his guards to bring him a monk, so he could demand to know why the Almighty would preserve one man just so that he could murder a much better one. The guards, of course, ignored the request. They only came to bring food, and even that happened far less often then Merin would have liked. In fact, it appeared that his cell was completely unguarded. His small barred window provided an empty view of a blank hallway. It was lit only by the sunlight that must have come in though an unseen window.

  The days passed in painful lethargy. The room was maddeningly small; the closed-in walls, with no sight of the sky, made him frantic at times. His head still hurt from the blow he had taken, and Aredor’s death weighed upon him—mixing with his grief for Lord Dalenar, who probably thought Renarin dead too. It was nearly too much. As his worries loomed, Merin began to fear for his sanity.

  He was rescued by an unlikely source. It happened by accident, during a moment of particular desperation. Logically, Merin knew the walls of his cell were made of immobile stone—and yet, he could see them creeping forward, sliding toward him. Rather than snapping, however, he found himself seeking refuge in the now-familiar stances Vasher had taught him. Strangely, the forms brought him a measure of peace to combat the frustrations of captivity.

  He had learned long ago, as a young spearman, that focus was the first skill a warrior should learn. The man who could focus on the battlefield—remembering his training despite arrows, screams, and enemy spears—was usually the man who lived. Vasher had expanded upon this training, forcing Merin to focus on his stances and styles until he knew their moves as part of himself.

  It appeared that within this focus, the sounds and dangers of battle weren’t the only things that could be ignored—it allowed him to push back the walls, breath deeply despite his enclosure, and keep himself strong. The forms didn’t help with his grief, but at least he didn’t have to fight depression and claustrophobia at the same time.

  Either one alone was more than bad enough.

  Merin stared at his finger, focusing on the double images in front of him. Slowly, he let one eye become dominant, and one of his finger-images became clear, then invisible. He smoothly switched his attention to the other eye, letting one image of his finger fade away while the other one reappeared. He couldn’t make both disappear at once yet, but he was getting close. A few more days of meditation, and he would have it.

  A few more days. Before his captivity, he would have groaned at the thought of such forced meditation. Now, however, he knew that he needed to fill his time and his mind—lest he think too hard about his small enclosure. And so, when his body tired of the dueling forms, he moved on to the little meditation exercise Vasher had taught him.

  Merin had heard that monks spent long hours in meditation, pondering philosophy—or sometimes thinking about nothing at all, instead just letting their minds be clear. Perhaps Vasher had gotten this particular exercise from some form of monastic training. Whatever the original source, Merin was grateful for it. It wasn’t performing its original function—Merin was beginning to doubt he would ever return to Kholinar to learn to ‘skep,’ whatever that was. However, the meditative exercise was serving a far more vital purpose—it was keeping Merin sane.

  Sane for what, he still wasn’t sure. The cut of stone used in the walls told him he was probably being held in Ral Eram. Either King Elhokar would order Merin executed for treason, or he would order Merin released to Lord Dalenar—who, in turn, would undoubtedly stri
p Merin of rank and Blade. After all, that was what Merin had earned through his disobedience.

  Merin paused, letting his eyes focus and lowering his finger. Had he imagined that sound?

  A small stone from the wall directly in front of him suddenly popped free and fell to the floor with a crack. Merin stared at it for a dumbfounded second, then looked up.

  “There you are,” said a muffled, yet familiar, voice. “I thought the rock would never wiggle free. How are you holding up?”

  “Renarin?” Merin said, jumping to his feet in an enthusiastic motion. The hole was in the back wall, the one opposite the door. “Renarin, where are you?”

  “I’m in a cell, of course,” Renarin replied. “Much like yours, I suspect. I would have spoken to you earlier, but I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy?” Merin said, rubbing his fingers along the hole’s sides, trying to expand it. There were a few cracks in the wall here, where the stones had settled over time, but none of the others seemed loose. “Busy how? You said you’re in a cell.”

  Renarin didn’t respond.

  “Renarin?” Merin asked, a bit frantic.

  “Yes?” a distracted voice said a moment later. “I’m glad you’re all right, Merin, but I do need to get back to my work.”

  Blessed winds, Merin thought. He’s snapped. Like I almost did.

  “Renarin, how can you talk like that?” Merin asked. “How can you be so calm after what happened to Aredor?”

  “I knew Aredor was dead before we left Kholinar,” the voice responded. “Or, well, I knew he was dead without actually knowing it. Anyway, I was ready for what we found. We have to think of other things now—other works. The ones who control this palace could very well capture all of Alethkar unless we find a way to help.”

  Merin paused. “Those who control the palace?” he asked. “Renarin, what are you talking about?”

  No response.

  “Renarin?” Merin asked a little more loudly. “Who controls the palace?”

  “The Vedens,” Renarin eventually said. “That’s right—you were still unconscious. They kept hitting you to keep you down. Men fear Shardbearers, even when they aren’t unarmed. Those weren’t Aleths who took us, Merin. They were too big, too . . . Veden. Anyway, they’ve taken the Oathgates. I saw their army as we rode up into the city. It was big.”

  Merin stepped back, blinking in surprise. The Vedens? Invading Alethkar? With the Aleth armies weakened from fighting one another . . . Even to his untrained strategic senses, that sounded very bad.

  “We might be able to do something,” Renarin was saying through the hole. “I’m not sure yet—I’ve still got so much work to do.”

  “Us?” Merin asked with a sinking feeling. “Renarin, we’re locked in cells. Besides, without my Blade, what am I? Even with it, I couldn’t help Aredor.”

  Throughout my time in Kholinar, I kept wondering what my place was. I could never find it. Maybe that’s because I didn’t have a place. I wasn’t supposed to be there.

  “Possibly true,” Renarin said. “Possibly untrue. I really don’t know yet. But you were the one who convinced me to go try and save Aredor, and we knew that was a hopeless battle. What reason do we have to give up now, when things are remarkably less predictable?”

  “Less predictable?” Merin asked. “Renarin, we’re locked in a dungeon. And, unless you know of a couple more loose stones, we’re probably going to be here for a while.”

  “You might want to look for more stones,” Renarin said. “Ral Eram is well-built, but sometimes we forget how old it is. The Oathpact Kings built it in the Sixth Epoch—that makes the palace a good two thousand years old. Still, I doubt you’ll be able to pry your way out. Some chipped rocks in a dividing wall are one thing, but a potential escape route—well, don’t hope too much. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Excuse you?” Merin said. “What is so pressing?”

  “Work,” Renarin said distractedly.

  “Work?” Merin asked. “What work?” There was no response. Merin nearly screamed in frustration, not wanting to go back to the lone silence. “Renarin?” he said, grasping for anything. “Renarin, I’m sorry your sphere got destroyed.”

  At first he assumed there would be no response. Then, blessedly, Renarin’s voice returned—though much weaker this time. “Destroyed?” Renarin asked. “Oh, I broke that on purpose.”

  “On purpose?” Merin asked with surprise.

  “Of course,” Renarin said. “How else was I going to get a shard of stone small enough to slip past our captors? Oh, and I grabbed this for you.”

  There was a slight scraping sound. Merin peeked through the hole between their cells as Renarin pushed something through, forcing it forward with his soup spoon. Merin reached out to catch the object just as it plopped free from the wall.

  It was a shiny black opal. Merin’s opal, from his Shardblade.

  Merin stood in stunned amazement for a full ten heartbeats. “Renarin!” he said with a joyful cry. “Where . . . how . . . ?”

  “Right after I broke the onyx sphere,” Renarin said. “I pretended to stumble, then grabbed your opal off the ground. There were so many pieces of black rock on the stone then that they didn’t notice one missing, even if it was a bit larger. I figured you would want it.”

  Merin closed his fingers around the smooth stone. He almost felt . . . like he had been given a piece of himself back. A sane, hopeful piece. As long as he had his opal, he could restore his Blade—if he ever managed to get another one.

  “Thank you, Renarin,” he said through the hole. There was, however, no response—whatever weirdness Renarin was about, it had claimed his attention again.

  chapter 55

  Taln 10

  All was not right. The Return had begun, over three months lost already. The other Heralds had not contacted him. Ral Eram was held by invaders, while the Epoch Kingdoms—the few that remained—squabbled amongst themselves. Something was wrong with his nahel bond, and the powers it granted had failed him.

  Yet, standing before troops again, making soldiers out of common men—this was something Taln understood. There was a comforting familiarity to it.

  He had quickly updated his knowledge of modern strategies by speaking with Kemnar and the other soldiers. The use of mobile towers was a newer invention, developed as bow technology—historically useless against the crystal-boned Khothen—came into favor. Awakeners, thankfully, were rarely used in battle. Taln well remembered the chaos of the Awakener Wars of the Third Epoch—wars the Heralds themselves had sparked to overthrow Kanar.

  Modern battles revolved around Shardblades, as Taln would have projected. Versatile formations of men, organized by armament, formed the landscape upon which Shardbearers dueled. The formations of men weren’t unimportant, of course—they were used to gain position and strategic dominance on the battlefield. The Shardbearers, however, were the focus of the battles themselves.

  So, the first thing Taln taught his men was not to be frightened of a Shardblade.

  His teachings bothered Meridas, and that was all the more reason to continue them. The nobleman shot troubled glares toward the soldiers as Taln allowed each one to hold his Blade and take a few swings, hopefully dispelling some of the mysticism surrounding the weapons. Taln showed them the delicate art of parrying a Shardblade, teaching them to slap the weapon on the flat of its blade, deflecting it without letting one’s spearhaft touch the sharpened edge. He forced them to face him, one man at a time, and spar with him until they learned to focus less on the weapon and more on their opponent.

  Even Kemnar, who was normally so accepting, found this training a little unnerving. Shardblades, weapons forged to protect mankind from a demonic threat, were coveted and revered. It troubled the noblemen to see their mythological aura dispelled. Taln did not stop his training. Demystifying Shardblades was only a small step—in seven months, these men would have to face the Khothen themselves. Even during the days of the Epoch Kingdoms, whe
n men had believed in the Stormshades and been trained to fight them, Taln had seen many a brave man frozen by fear when faced by a legendary demonic horror.

  And so, he trained them—not for Jasnah’s war, but for the one that would come afterward. He taught them discipline, then explained why it would save their lives more often than would any spear or shield. With the increased numbers from Marcabe, they were nearly two hundred strong. Not an army, but a reasonable task force. Their weapons were poor in quality, their armor non-existent, but their will was strong, and Taln saw that their training was good. By the time a week had passed, he had them marching with discipline, and Meridas was able to increase his pace from the leisurely march he had kept during the first few days.

  Taln could see the effect the increased speed had on Jasnah. She was shorter than most of the men in the group, and was unaccustomed to walking with a natural stride. Her life had been one of ease, at least physically, and her body protested at the strain of forced marching. Yet he knew she would endure. There was warrior’s determination in her eyes; not all battles were fought with spear and sword, and though her life had left her physically weak, it had given her a will as strong as that of any general. He didn’t patronize her, saying little of her travails. Her body would accustom itself to the exercise, and she would be stronger for it. In the months to follow, she would need a body as tough as her mind to survive Khothen invasions.

  The one who surprised him most was Brother Lhan. The plump monk joined in the battle training with the other men, though Taln had never suggested he do so. In fact, Taln had expected Lhan to have as much trouble as Jasnah. If the monk felt the pains of extended walking, followed by intense spear training, he didn’t show it. In fact, he continued to work even after the training, for each night—or, rather, morning, since they slept during the day—he gave a recitation from the Arguments. He quoted flawlessly, despite his claims that he had never had the patience for memorization. Taln could see the appreciation in his soldiers’ eyes. Meridas gave them legitimacy, Taln gave them skill, but Lhan gave them faith.