The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

Merin stumbled back, falling to the ground and drooping the bracelet with a groan of pain. The air immediately returned to plain mundanity, as invisible to him as it was to everyone else.

  The Shardbearer stood, dumbfounded, as the shackles fell free from Merin’s hands and thunked to the floor beside the bracelet. There was a moment of silence, then the Shardbearer looked up at Merin, raised his weapon again, and advanced.

  Merin scrambled frantically, looking for a weapon. The soldier he had attacked lay on the ground a short distance away, and Merin grabbed for a hilt sticking out from beneath the man’s unconscious body. Unfortunately, as Merin grabbed the hilt and pulled it out, he was rewarded not with a sword, but a nobleman’s knife. Merin stumbled to his feet anyway, holding the weapon in a stance. However, the foot-long blade looked depressingly inadequate when facing the enormous Shardblade. The Shardbearer had an amazing reach, and he could easily shear through metal. He smiled as he regarded Merin’s defense.

  Suddenly, Merin felt the terror Vasher had spoken of, the fear that came from facing a Shardbearer. He was back on the Shieldhome sands, holding a simple arrow while his opponent advanced with a steel blade. He felt the stance, and saw the flaws in his opponent’s form. The Veden wasn’t a warrior, he was what Vasher had taught Merin to defeat—a man who relied not on skill, but upon his weapon. The man’s form was neat—he was obviously a duelist—but it was strict and rigid, and it was confident. Far too confident.

  Overconfidence is really just a problem of flexibility, Vasher’s voice whispered. Presumption creates predictability.

  The Shardbearer struck with an almost snide swing of his weapon. It was a one-handed blow that had undoubtedly cut down many a cringing battlefield peasant—an arrogant, demeaning attack. Merin dodged to the side, feeling the winds though he couldn’t see them, then lunged forward—ducking beneath the man’s surprised backhand—and rammed his dagger directly through the Shardbearer’s forearm.

  The man screamed in pain, dropping his Blade. Merin leapt for the fallen weapon, lifting it in two hands. Merin saw that same terror in the fallen Shardbearer’s eyes—the realization of what he faced, of what was coming—just before the Blade took him in the neck.

  Merin gasped for breath, standing over the corpse with dazed surprise.

  “Merin!” a feminine voice screamed.

  Merin spun, raising the Blade. It was awkward and unfamiliar in his hands, but Vasher had taught him to deal with that. The two remaining guards held a frantically struggling Shinri, oblivious to what had just happened behind them. Both men died before they had time to realize their mistake.

  Shinri stumbled back, rubbing her wrist where one of the men had grabbed her. Her eyes flickered to the dead men, but she didn’t gasp or pale when confronted by the corpses. Merin stood for a moment, listening for signs that the struggle had been heard, waiting for the sudden rush of soldiers.

  They didn’t come. The stables were secluded, and the Shardbearer had sent the stablehands away so that they wouldn’t witness Merin’s death. Everything was oddly quiet.

  “You killed them messily enough,” Shinri said, bending down to search one of the bodies.

  “Shardblades aren’t known for their cleanliness,” Merin replied as he wiped the Blade free of blood.

  Shinri snorted, picking up a fallen soldier’s sword and returning it to the sheath she had removed from his belt. “For Renarin,” she said to his questioning glance. “I assume you intend to go back for him?”

  “Of course,” Merin said firmly. “But you’ll have to show me the way.”

  Shinri nodded, waving him to follow. Merin stepped back first, however, studying the bracelet she had thrown at him. It sparkled with opaque green stones—the same stone his glyphward had been made from. It did not seem hot to the touch—nor did his hand show any burn marks, though he could still feel traces of the agonizing pain in his fingers.

  “Are you coming?” she asked.

  Merin nodded, grabbing the bracelet and standing. His vision changed immediately, granting him sight of the flow and ebb of the room’s subtle wind currents. Touching the silver casing, however, gave no such reaction.

  It wasn’t the glyph at all, he thought with a numb mind. It was never the glyph. It was the stone.

  “What rock is this?” he asked as he joined Shinri in the hallway.

  “Jade,” Shinri said. “It’s fairly common among women’s jewelry.”

  “How did you know to throw this to me?” he asked.

  She eyed him with a glance that told him just how little she appreciated his tone. “Renarin,” she said. “He told me to give it to you. Why? What does it matter?”

  Merin just shook his head. “I . . .” How did one explain such a thing? He had seen the look in her eyes when he had spoken of magic before.

  “I thank you for the rescue,” he finally said. “You have incredible aim.”

  Shinri shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of practice, though not recently. Anyway, your rescue is my own rescue. Come on, I think I can get us back to the prison hallway without incident, but we’ll have to move quickly. Someone will discover those bodies before long.”

  Merin nodded, following her lead. He clutched the bracelet in a tight grip, making certain that the jade stone touched his skin. The winds had finally returned; he wasn’t about to let them vanish again.

  Apparently, Shinri’s plans for their escape were in-depth, and she had considered the stables as a back-up to the Oathgates. She knew the patrol routes, and she had memorized every guard post. She led the two of them through a furtive, yet uneventful, dash toward Renarin’s cell.

  Merin spent the trip waiting, expectantly, to hear calls of alarm from behind. None came, but that didn’t help his nerves. Still, he felt a strong measure of satisfaction at finally having been able to do something. The weeks of captivity were finally over—he had his Blade back, and he had the winds. Those two victories alone made him exuberant. Now if they could only escape the city.

  Shinri paused. Before them lay a hallway Merin vaguely recognized—he had only seen it once from the outside. It was empty.

  “No guards?” he asked with surprise.

  Shinri shook her head, leading him forward. “There was only ever one guard, and he was one of the ones you killed in the stables.”

  Merin nodded, joining her at Renarin’s door.

  “I found the keys on the jailer’s body,” she explained, pulling out a large ring. “We just have to—”

  “We don’t need keys,” Merin said, raising the Shardblade. “Renarin? Are you in there?”

  “Of course,” a voice replied.

  “Stand away from the door,” Merin said, then rammed his Blade between the door and the wall and sliced free the lock’s bolt.

  Shinri raised an appreciative eyebrow, discarding the keys, and Merin pulled open the door. He stepped inside a cell that was unsurprisingly similar to his own. It had no furniture and a set of blank walls, unmarked by—

  “Oh, Blessed Lordmaker!” Shinri gasped.

  Merin spun and immediately saw what she meant. Not all of the walls were blank—the one that held the door was covered with scribbles. Some of the writing was scratched into the stone, and some of it was written in a crusty, red color. Apparently, Renarin had used his own blood as ink.

  The boy himself crouched near the far eastern side of the wall, scratching the stones with a small rock. “Just a moment,” he mumbled. “I’m almost done here.”

  Merin stepped back, stunned by the display. The entire wall was covered with the insane scratchings. The tiny numbers seemed to have their own flow, lining together in ways that almost made them seem like painted patterns. Lines of scribbles spun and melded, some rotating around central points, others falling in neat rows. There were thousands of them, each written with the delicate precision of madness.

  “Renarin . . .” Shinri whispered. “What is this?”

  “I had to use this wall so the jailer wouldn’t see when he looked
in through the window,” Renarin said, as if in response to the question.

  “Is that blood?” Shinri asked, paling slightly.

  “It made for the best writing,” Renarin said. “Scratching takes much longer, and I can’t see it as well when I’m done. When I started to feel light-headed from losing so much blood, though, I realized I would have to scratch during the less important sections.”

  He’s gone mad, Merin realized. It started before, when he traveled with me, but Aredor’s death mixed with the captivity must have pushed him too far.

  “Renarin,” he said quietly. “We have to go. We left bodies behind us—they’ll discover our escape soon.”

  “We have a bit of time yet,” Renarin assured him, not looking up from his scribbling. “By the way, I should tell Lady Shinri that she did very well. The permutations spoke a very different story for the rest of us should your execution have been successful. She even got you a Shardblade, I see.”

  Merin looked down at the weapon. “Yes,” he said. “Renarin, we really need to go.”

  Shinri was still staring at the numbers, and she showed a hint of fear in her eyes.

  “I know,” Renarin said. “I just . . .” he trailed off, making a few final notations. Then he paused.

  “Renarin?”

  Renarin sighed, setting down his rock and shaking his head. He stood, inspecting his unnatural mural. “I’m too new at this, Merin. I focused my vision too narrowly. All of this work doesn’t tell me much. You’re right here, in the section I was working on, and I’m on the other side of the door. Lady Shinri is in the center. We’re important, especially you two, but I looked so closely at you that I can’t see the larger scope. I see days, not years. I’ll need to start again.”

  “You’re mad,” Shinri finally whispered.

  Renarin smiled. “It’s a possibility, I suppose, though I certainly hope that I’m not. I feel . . . a wonder. A joy that I’ve never missed, yet at the same time known that I should have felt. I can finally see the true patterns that hid just at the edges of my sight. Shinri gave you the jade, Merin?”

  Merin started, looking down at the bracelet. “How did you . . . ?”

  Renarin looked at him, eyes alight. “How do you feel when you touch the jade, Merin? Does truth open to you? What do you see that others cannot?”

  Merin shivered beneath Renarin’s gaze. “I see the wind,” he whispered. “I see the air moving.”

  Renarin nodded, smiling. “I should have known the answer when you showed me that glyph months ago. I’m sorry—my eyes weren’t open yet. I didn’t make the connection, though I had, of course, heard of Windrunners.”

  Windrunners. Merin had heard of them too, in legends and stories. One of the Ten Epellion, Epoch Warriors dedicated to the preservation of the peace of men.

  “But—” he began, but Renarin cut him off again.

  “And Lady Shinri,” Renarin said, turning to her. “I realize that your experience is limited, but how did you feel when you touched the Oathgate’s opal? What did you see?”

  She glanced at him, obviously still uncomfortable. “I didn’t see anything,” she challenged.

  “Ah, but you did,” Renarin said. “You felt things, knew things, that others do not—if just for a moment. Tell me, Shinri, when were you born?”

  Shinri frowned. “We need to go,” she said, tone growing cool. “If we don’t get to the Oathgates, then—”

  “Please,” Renarin said firmly. “Please answer my question.”

  Merin frowned slightly. Something about Renarin had changed. It wasn’t just his strange actions, it was something about the boy’s temperament. He seemed far more confident, less withdrawn. The old Renarin would never have been able to command a conversation, yet this one forced even a courtly-trained lady into acquiescence.

  “The sixty-fifth year of the century,” she said. “On the tenth day of Mar-Kav.”

  “You, Merin?” Renarin asked.

  “The same year,” Merin said. “Nine-hundred and sixty-five. On the tenth of Mar-Nolh.”

  Renarin nodded. “And I was born on the seventeenth of Mar-Taln, during the same year. Merin, Shinri, and Renarin. Jade, opal, and onyx. Three births in the same year. Perhaps, rather than asking if I am mad, we should be wondering something else. What happened seventeen years ago that awakened the old powers again?”

  Merin stood quietly, unable to shake off the aura of those words. He stood, holding Shinri’s bracelet, rubbing his thumb against the smooth green stone . . . just like Renarin did with the shard of onyx held at his side. The air floated and curled in its uncaring way, its dancing performed only for Merin. The others could not see. Was it too much to believe that Renarin saw something in those insane and scattered marks, something plain and clear to him, but invisible to everyone else?

  “We have to go,” Shinri said, her voice shocking Merin out of his stupor.

  “Just a moment,” Merin said. “Renarin, my opal?”

  Renarin reached into a cleft in the wall’s stone, retrieving the dark black opal Merin had shoved desperately through the hole between their cells once he realized the men intended to take him. Merin accepted the black stone, then rammed the Shardblade’s pommel against the edge of the stone door, knocking free the previous owner’s opal. The metal clasps immediately bent back, resting open, like the maw of an insect. Merin placed his own opal inside, and the claw-like silver tines bent closed, locking the stone in place.

  The change was immediate. The Blade glistened, shimmering like it was made of a silvery liquid. It stretched slightly, thinning and adopting a slight curve. The patterns shimmered, forming the familiar glyphs that had once lined Merin’s Blade, then outlining them in the same wave-like pattern. The weapon’s hilt lengthened and formed to fit his grip, changing from awkward to familiar in the passing of a few heartbeats. When the process was finished, the weapon Merin held was indistinguishable from the one that had been taken from him a few weeks before, that day after they had discovered Aredor’s body.

  Merin raised the Blade, its presence comforting him like that of an old friend. The silvery metal glistened, and for the first time Merin realized that he had been wrong about the blade’s markings. The patterns weren’t those of rivers or waves, as he had once assumed. No, they were imitations of the air patterns around him. If the winds were somehow solidified and trapped in metallic form, they would look something like the Blade’s design. It had known him, even before he had known himself.

  “Can we go now?” Shinri asked testily.

  “Yes,” Merin said. “Lead us to the Oathgates.”

  The first guard died before the other four realized they were under attack. Merin cut down a second man, pushing his way into the Oathgate chamber as the last three men reacted. As instructed, Renarin ducked around the corner behind Merin, leaping at one of the soldiers and drawing his attention. Merin struck at the other two. One man raised his sword, the fear starting to dawn in his eyes.

  Few men, nobleman or citizen, could face a Shardbearer and maintain still nerves. Apparently, a Shardbearer had guarded the room before—but it was the same man who had been ordered to bring Merin’s head. The other soldiers were just regular men.

  Merin’s Blade sheared his opponent’s weapon in half, then continued on through flesh. Merin turned on the last soldier, who held his sword in sweaty palms. He probably knew what to do—the way to attack a Shardbearer was to strike quickly, hoping that luck or skill would guide the blow. A regular man could not defeat a Shardbearer in an extended fight.

  The soldier was a younger man. Merin could see his tension, see him preparing for his strike—the last one he would make.

  Shinri’s voice suddenly snapped in the air. Merin gritted his teeth in annoyance as the woman entered the room, oblivious to his suggestion that she remain outside until the fighting was complete.

  Merin’s opponent shot a glance at the soldier Renarin was fighting. Both men lowered their weapons and backed from the room, kee
ping wary eyes on Merin. A moment later they were gone, dashing down the hallway, screaming for aid.

  “What was that?” Merin demanded, lowering his weapon.

  “I suggested that they go for help,” Shinri said, walking into the room. “We’ll be through the Oathgates before they return, and our escape route will hardly remain secret for long with these corpses laying around.”

  Merin didn’t look down, ignoring her gesture. “Let’s go,” he said, turning and walking into the central chamber. The white marble floor was wondrous, yet the ten sculpted gateways—resplendent with cuts of stones and gems, many of which Merin couldn’t name—made even the marble look drab.

  “Why do you do that?” Shinri asked curiously, joining him among the Oathgates.

  “What?” Merin asked.

  “You refuse to look at them,” Shinri said. “The men you kill.”

  Merin gritted his teeth, not turning, careful to face away from the carnage near the room’s entrance. “That’s what they taught us,” he said. “Two years ago, when I was trained as a spearman. The veterans told us to focus on the fighting, not the dead at our feet. They said never to look down.”

  “I see,” Shinri said curiously, studying his face with the infuriatingly knowing look all the courtly women seemed to have mastered.

  “Merin, we need to talk,” Renarin said, sheathing his sword and tugging on Merin’s cloak. “We have to decide where we’re going.”

  Merin frowned. “What decision is there to make?” he asked. “We’re going to Kholinar.”

  “Maybe,” Renarin said. “We need to talk, though.”

  “Choose quickly,” Shinri advised. “I intend to be in Thalenah before those soldiers return, and you’ll need me to open the gate for you.”

  Merin allowed himself to be drawn to the side. “What?” he asked. “Why not Kholinar?”

  “The city is likely to be besieged,” Renarin said. “King Ahven would have been a fool not to send forces to watch both Kholinar and Orinjah. They’re both in laits.”

  “So?” Merin asked.

  “Laits make wonderful positions for cities because of the rivers and the climate,” Renarin said, “but they’re horribly difficult to defend. Trapped in a steep valley, your opponent always has the high-ground advantage. A small containing force can usually hold a much larger one within a walled city, given that city is in a lait. If I’d been Ahven, I would have immediately sent forces to hold Kholinar and Orinjah to keep Elhokar from receiving reinforcements. It makes tactical sense.”