The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  That would be for the best. Merin didn’t want to try and fight his way to freedom. He bore these people no anger—from what he understood, they were a conquered people themselves. Unfortunately, if they held him much longer, he would have little choice. He had to get back to Alethkar so he could help Lord Dalenar.

  The room’s guards obviously understood the precarious nature of the captivity. If Merin did decide to try and escape, he could slaughter tensets of men before he was subdued and his Blade taken—if, indeed, he was subdued. The soldiers acted with respect, and not a little nervousness; none of them wanted to be the man who sparked a conflict. They pretended that the ‘delay’ wasn’t really incarceration, and for the moment Merin pretended the same.

  But for how much longer? So far, Renarin seemed contented to wait, so Merin did likewise. Yet how long could they waste? Alethkar was under attack, and Lord Dalenar had undoubtedly gone to war. Merin’s place was at his lord’s side.

  And yet he had allowed Renarin to persuade him to come to Lakhenran—a path that took him away from his lord. Had it been cowardice that had driven Merin to accept Renarin’s suggestion? Did he fear facing Dalenar and receiving punishment for riding to Crossguard?

  The internal accusations were difficult to ignore, and the guilt only made him more fidgety. When will we go? Merin thought with increasing frustration, shooting a glance at Renarin.

  Renarin sat with complete disconcern. Merin had to assume that his friend knew something, or had guessed something, about their predicament. Renarin would know best—he had far more experience with political matters than Merin.

  Merin sighed, standing and walking over to the window. The ocean below held tensets of ships—even more than the day before. Several more vessels were visible in the distance, slowly approaching the city. The docks were infested with scrambling workers.

  “What are they all doing here?” Merin wondered.

  “The ships?” Renarin asked from his bench beside the window. “That’s the Lakhenran fleet. It’s obviously gathering at King Ahven’s command.”

  “Now?” Merin asked. “Isn’t it too late? Ahven has already attacked Alethkar.”

  “It does seem a bit tardy,” Renarin agreed. “I don’t know why they haven’t left already.”

  “He didn’t expect to leave Ral Eram so early,” Shinri mumbled from the other side of the room. “He planned to stay a few more weeks, until the naval forces were in place.”

  “Why?” Renarin asked curiously. “What made him leave early?”

  “Lady Jasnah,” Shinri said. “She and some others escaped the city, and Ahven feared that she might expose him. So he left early, hoping to attack King Elhokar’s forces before they were warned of the danger.”

  Merin frowned, scanning the collected fleet. He knew little about navies—the first time had seen the ocean had been when the Aleth armies marched passed the Point of the Sea of Chomar on their way to Prallah. “What good will a navy do?” he asked. “I mean, the fighting will take place inland, won’t it?”

  “Yes,” Renarin said, standing and leaning against the windowsill beside him. “However, the Lakhenran troops those ships hold are equally as important as the vessels themselves. There are at least four tenset transports out there—they could land an army large enough to provide serious flanking danger. Then, once the troops are off-loaded, the ships themselves can sail the coast and make certain Alethkar doesn’t receive any support from Aleth Pralir or Thalenah. Help will have to land on the other side of the Sea of Chomar, which will create a delay of at least two months.”

  Merin’s frown deepened. He glanced at Renarin, speaking in a lower voice. “Renarin, we can’t delay any longer. We have to get this information to Lord Dalenar.”

  “I agree,” Renarin said cheerily. “Have you decided to try and escape, then?”

  “What do you think?”

  Renarin shrugged. “It’s up to you. You’re the ranking nobleman—that means you’re in charge.”

  Merin froze. “What?” he hissed, shooting a glance back at Shinri. He kept his voice low, so she couldn’t listen in with her judgmental ears. “Renarin, I’m not in charge. You are.”

  “I’m not a Shardbearer,” he said. “You outrank me.”

  “So?”

  “So people won’t listen to me,” Renarin said. “I have a reputation, even this far south. Everyone knows my father, and they know me by association. I’m no leader of men—I don’t pay enough attention to them, and I can’t speak in the ways that inspire loyalty. I’m no warrior, Merin. No, you’re in charge. When you decide to leave this cell, we will go.”

  Merin shook his head. “Renarin, I can’t. I . . .” he trailed off, trying to gauge his own emotions. How could he explain the guilt he had felt while imprisoned in Ral Eram . . . the guilt he still felt?

  “I don’t want to decide,” Merin finally said. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Renarin. I thought I did—I thought I was living in a story, that I was some kind of hero, like in the ballads. But heroes don’t betray their lords, and don’t let their friends ride to battle alone. Don’t let them die alone . . .”

  “Leadership isn’t about choosing right all the time, Merin,” Renarin replied quietly. “It’s about accepting consequences. Surely Bajerden’s words taught you that much. How many recitations of The Way of Kings did you listen to?”

  “A lot,” Merin said. “But I found the book kind of boring.”

  Renarin smiled. “It is. But it’s true anyway.”

  Merin sighed, then he glanced at Renarin. “Who are you to tell me about responsibility? You’re trying to avoid making decisions too.”

  “I’m not a Shardbearer,” Renarin said, “nor am I a Windrunner.”

  Merin paused. Windrunner. He wasn’t certain how to handle that comment. The stories spoke of Windrunners and the other Epellion—Stonewards, Dustbringers, and the others—with a tone reserved for the greatest of heroes. Merin didn’t belong in their midst—especially after what he had let happen to Aredor.

  “I don’t know, Renarin,” he said sickly. “It’s more than just making bad decisions. I still don’t know what is right. Should I have gone with Aredor at first? Maybe he would still be alive. Should I have remained firm and stayed behind? If I had, then I would be at Lord Dalenar’s side, defending Alethkar instead of sitting in a cell far to the south. I wavered in between, and I still don’t know which decision would have been right.”

  “There was a third decision,” Renarin said. “The one you did make—leaving afterward, trying to find a way to bring Aredor back with you. If you hadn’t made that decision, then we wouldn’t have been able to help Lady Shinri.”

  “Help her?” Merin asked. “Renarin, we kidnapped her.”

  Renarin shrugged. “This was the right place to come, Merin. Lakhenran was the best choice of many.”

  “But why?”

  Renarin shrugged. “The Almighty curse me if I know.”

  Merin closed his eyes, leaning against the window sill and feeling the breeze from without. It was colder here in the south, but pleasantly so.

  “Merin,” Renarin said encouragingly, “you’re doing fine. It’s natural to think of past decisions—that will help you understand how to choose better in the future. However, don’t let your worries make you useless in the present—especially if there are current decisions you need to be making.”

  “Like what?” Merin asked. “Like whether or not I should take my Blade and cut down those poor men who have been assigned to guard us?”

  “That’s one decision you could make,” Renarin said. “However, I think there’s something more important you need to consider. I think, perhaps, it’s time to ask yourself if you really want to be a nobleman. Do you?”

  Merin stood quietly for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “It seems like a ridiculous question, doesn’t it? Who wouldn’t want to be a Shardbearer? But . . .”

  “Being a lord isn’t about carrying a Blade,” Renari
n said. “Though I don’t think I understood that until I lost my own. It can’t just be about the sword, Merin—otherwise any fool who managed to get a Blade would automatically become a good leader. No, there has to be more. In the end, I think it’s all about decisions. A spearman doesn’t have to make them; he can wait until he’s told what to do. A lord has to be willing to decide—and not just for himself, but for others as well.”

  Merin nodded quietly.

  “You were given a Blade,” Renarin said, “but I don’t think you ever really decided to be a Shardbearer. It’s more than loyalty. It’s more than doing what Lord Dalenar tells you. It’s about doing what you think is best, even if there isn’t anyone else there to give commands.”

  There was an unspoken suggestion in those words. Decide now. What will it be? Lord or citizen? Ever since that first day on the battlefield, Merin had been trying to figure out what his place was. No one seemed to be able to tell him exactly what he should be doing.

  And it didn’t appear that anyone was going to.

  “Renarin,” he said slowly, still leaning on the sill and looking out the window. “Do you think the reason we came here might have something to do with those ships?”

  Renarin turned speculatively. “I wondered that myself,” he said. “Perhaps. Knowledge of the fleet’s numbers and position would certainly be valuable information for the Aleth forces to receive.”

  “And if the ships never left at all?” Merin asked.

  Renarin paused for a second, then he shrugged. “That would be even better, obviously.”

  Merin nodded, standing. “All right, then. Let’s go.” The smoke appeared in his hand almost without conscious summoning. Ten heartbeats. The Blade fell into his fingers as he crossed the room toward the door.

  Lady Shinri stood. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Merin ignored her. “Who rules Lakhenran on King Ahven’s behalf?” he asked Renarin, pausing before the door to their rooms.

  “A council of regents,” Renarin said. “Three men, each one representing one of the Lakhenran houses who allied with Vedenar during the invasion.”

  “Traitors, then,” Merin surmised.

  Renarin nodded. “They are not well-loved by the Lakhenran people.”

  Merin nodded.

  “Merin, what are you planning . . . ?” Shinri asked again, her voice apprehensive.

  Their door was locked, of course. Merin raised his Blade, then with three strikes cut it off of its hinges and bolt. He kicked it, and the oaken portal fell outward, crashing to the stones outside with a single, vibrant crack.

  A guard stood on either side of the doorway, their terrified, yet unsurprised, expressions proving that they had expected Merin’s attack to come eventually. They drew their weapons with nervous hands, and Merin could see a third man dashing down the hillside toward the center of town.

  One of the soldiers raised his sword threateningly. Merin sheared it in half.

  “Take me to the council of regents,” Merin said. “I need to speak with them.”

  The soldier stared back with a mixture of defiance and worry, catching Merin’s eyes. The move was obvious enough that Merin wasn’t surprised when the second man tried to attack him from the side. A swipe of the Shardblade divided that man’s blade from its hilt as well.

  Merin raised his Blade toward the first man’s chest. He was an older solider, greying, probably chosen for guard duty because of his age.

  “I won’t take you,” the man said in thickly-accented Aleth.

  Merin paused. Maybe the man’s age wasn’t the only reason he had been given the duty. Merin eyed the second man, who looked equally resolute. They’ve had plenty of time to consider this moment. These men have been ready to die for three days.

  “Oh, this is foolishness,” Lady Shinri snapped from behind. “I know the way. Stop terrorizing Kalden and Chanmed.”

  Merin paused, lowering his Blade as Shinri pushed past him. “How do you know their names?”

  She gave him a flat look, weakening his newfound resolve. “They have been bringing our meals for the last three days, Merin. One doesn’t have to be all that observant to listen when men speak to one another.”

  Merin blushed as Shinri started down the hill, walking in the same direction as the departed soldier. Merin and Renarin followed behind, as did the two unarmed, and slightly confused, soldiers.

  Merin kept a wary eye behind as they walked. Renarin, however, still looked more thoughtful than worried.

  “Do you think this is too drastic?” Merin asked in a low voice as they walked.

  Renarin shrugged. “We couldn’t wait forever, and this is certainly the most direct way to free ourselves. I am a bit curious to see how you intend to get us out of the city alive, though.”

  The city sloped down toward the ocean. The valley might have been called a lait, but it was a bit too broad. A wide riverbed ran through the center of the city, its dry banks hinting that the river was usually far thicker than the current summer trickle. The people Merin passed were Kanaran, but their clothing felt oddly . . . informal. Almost more like bedclothing than formal outfits. They showed far too much skin on both sexes, and there was something else very odd. It took Merin a moment to realize what it was.

  No cloaks. None of the people wore cloaks. This was almost strange enough to make him pause in place. He slowed, studying the streetgoers—who, in turn, watched his hustling pace with curious expressions. It was true. Not a one of them wore a cloak. In Alethkar, even the poorest of peasants owned a cloak—a starving man would sell his shoes before he sold his cloak. Yet here, no one seemed to bother with the garment. The absence only added to the sense of indecency; without cloaks, the people seemed almost . . . naked.

  Merin blushed, hurrying forward, his masculine stride allowing him to quickly catch Shinri, who—despite her hurry—maintained a graceful, proper stride.

  “Where?” Merin asked, glancing backward. Only one of the guards was still tailing them; the other had disappeared somewhere, likely to seek reinforcements.

  “Not far,” Shinri said. “That building ahead.”

  The structure in question was a massive golden dome. As they approach-ed, Merin could see signs of decay. It wasn’t that the building was in poor maintenance—the doors still hung firmly, and the stone was in good repair. However, what had once obviously been intricate reliefs had been allowed to fall prey to crom buildup, the once-delicate features melding together beneath a uniform stone patina. Where there once might have been Awakened embossings, there was now simple white-washed stone.

  A group of about ten soldiers was gathering near the entrance. Merin recognized one member of the group as the guard who had fled. Oddly, none of the men were Shardbearers—a fact both comforting and disturbing. He could probably take all ten by himself, though it would be a close fight. Without Shardplate, a group of ten trained soldiers was large enough to be of appreciable danger.

  Merin’s Blade still rested in his hand. Shinri paused, then glanced apprehensively toward Merin as he strode past her to face the soldiers. Only two of the men were noblemen, but the eight spearmen could prove even more deadly, their spears affording them longer reach. Merin stood for a moment, listening to his opponents shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze.

  What now? He asked himself. Fight my way in?

  “Merin,” Renarin said quietly, stepping up beside him, “these men aren’t our enemies.”

  “They kept us captive,” Merin replied.

  “And didn’t turn us over to Vedenar,” Renarin said.

  “I need to speak with the council of regents,” Merin said, eyeing the soldiers. He could see the nervous breaths puffing from their lips.

  “They’ll never let a hostile Shardbearer in to see their rulers,” Renarin said. “This is a captured nation—no Lakhenran warrior is allowed a Shardblade of his own. If they let you in, you could slaughter all three regents and their guards before anyone could stop you.”

 
; Merin gritted his teeth. It was a good argument, of course. It was hard to trust a man while he proverbially held a Shardblade at your neck. But, the alternative was to . . .

  Merin looked down at his Blade. It can’t just be about the sword . . .

  Merin stepped forward, causing a wrinkle of apprehension in the soldiers, then rammed his Blade into the ground. “You,” he said, pointing at their former prison guard—he knew the man spoke Aleth. “If I let you confiscate my Blade for the duration of the meeting, will you take me in to see the regents?”

  The man started. He blinked a few times. “Excuse me?” he asked, as if uncertain that he had interpreted Merin’s words correctly.

  Merin repeated his request. The guard’s confusion became shock, and he slowly turned to his companions and said something in a language Merin didn’t understand.

  “That . . . isn’t exactly what I thought you would do,” Renarin noted. “Do you have any idea how unorthodox a move it is to let a stranger hold your Blade?”

  Merin glanced at his weapon. Gone from his fingers only a few moments, he already felt an itching desire to grab it back and dismiss it. When he had thought it gone, taken from him, the sense of despair had been so painful that he didn’t even want to consider what would happen if he lost it again. He hadn’t even named the Blade yet—he was supposed to do that when the Bonding completed, but he hadn’t been able to determine a suitable title. He’d wanted to ask Lord Dalenar for advice . . .

  Assuming he lets me keep it, Merin thought sourly. Perhaps it was better to lose the Blade now to treachery. No, he immediately thought. Better not to lose it at all.

  The soldier reached forward with a timid hand, picking up the Blade uncertainly, as if waiting for a trap. He hefted the weapon, and Merin recalled his own first moments holding a Shardblade. Hopefully, this man wouldn’t decide to test the Blade’s sharpness on Merin, as Merin had once done with the rock outside his healer’s tent.