The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  Merin nodded, trying to ignore the worshipful glint in Kalden’s eyes. Merin had incorrectly assumed that the impression would fade as time progressed. The young soldier still regarded Merin with the same mixture of reverence and respect he had displayed on that first day.

  You shouldn’t blame the man, Merin thought. You probably spent your first weeks as a Shardbearer in a similar daze. The soldier’s respect was discomforting nonetheless.

  “When?” Merin asked.

  “Shortly, my lord,” Kalden said. “After the king finishes his meal.”

  Merin nodded, and Kalden took the gesture as a dismissal, though Merin would have preferred that the man stay. Merin felt almost as alone as he had during his days of captivity. Renarin stayed locked in his quarters most of the time, Shinri always made Merin feel guilty with those looks of hers, and the Lakhenrans universally regarded him as some kind of divine hero. Since his failure to save Aredor—and subsequent discussions with Renarin—had convinced Merin of just how unheroic he was, the people’s general regard made him feel deceitful somehow.

  Merin sighed. This night’s report would be like the others. He would sit quietly, not saying anything as the captain of the fast-moving scout ships relayed what his men had discovered from talking to villagers along the coast. Merin’s silence had a simple and practical motivation: he had nothing to add. What he knew of war came from a spearman’s viewpoint, and was of little use to macroscopic plannings. He had no experience with scouting, foraging, or planning assaults.

  Yet the other men in the conference—King Tamar, along with the other two former regents as his Parshens and the collected Lakhenran admirals and generals—always mistook Merin’s silence for thoughtfulness. When he did say something, they all nodded appreciatively—as if his single sentence contained truths beyond what normal men could comprehend. They always consulted him on decisions regarding the fleet, and even went so far as to ask his permission for minor course changes.

  Merin sighed, turning to stroll down the left side of the ship. Port? Starboard? He thought that left meant port, but if he was wrong, no one had the courage to correct him. He walked undirectedly—the others always sent Kalden’s warning a good amount of time before the actual meeting began, so that Merin would have time to ‘prepare.’ Merin probably had about an hour before he had to climb aboard one of the ferrying boats to be taken to the king’s vessel.

  He found himself wandering toward the cabin area, past the rowing men and up the steps to the central tier. He didn’t go to his room, however, but paused in front of the one beside it. Renarin’s chamber.

  He knocked. As usual, there was no answer. This time, however, Merin wasn’t in a mood to be dissuaded—he had to talk to someone who didn’t look at him as some kind of Heraldic savior. So he just opened the door.

  Renarin sat in a chair in front of the door, staring directly at him.

  Merin jumped slightly. It soon became obvious, however, that Renarin wasn’t looking at Merin, but beyond him, his eyes thoughtful. “Come in and close the door,” Renarin said quietly.

  Merin entered the room, doing as instructed. The boat’s frame creaked weightily as it rocked, but Merin felt as if he had entered another world—one of strange, foreign markings. He had expected to see numbers on the walls—Renarin had been spending a lot of time in the room, after all—but seeing them still left Merin with an eerie feeling. Renarin had carved his numbers directly into the wooden walls and floor, etching each one with a careful and precise hand. Thousands upon thousands of glyphs defaced the room, which Renarin had emptied of all furniture save for the single chair and some wrinkled bedding in the corner.

  The numbers were tiny this time, even smaller than the ones Renarin had drawn in his cell. And there were far more of them. There seemed to be a . . . logic to them, one that Merin couldn’t quite apprehend. Some of the numbers moved in broad formations, like marching armies, and others looked like they would form murals if one stood far enough away. All four walls were coated with scribbles, as was the entire floor. Only one section of the room was still clean—a circular place directly in the center of the door Merin had entered through.

  “What do you see?” Merin asked, stepping over to stand beside his friend’s chair.

  “Questions,” Renarin said. “Problems. Wars. We live in . . . strange times, Merin.”

  Wind seeped through cracks in the door. “I know,” Merin said truthfully.

  “I did as I wanted,” Renarin said. “I looked at the larger tapestry—I looked at movements, not individuals. And I found myself horribly unprepared to do so. I don’t have the answers I want, Merin. I can almost see so many things, but the answers . . .”

  “I don’t understand,” Merin said. “What do you see, Renarin? When I touch jade, the wind becomes real to me. It’s like that for you?”

  “Kind of,” Renarin said, still staring at the wall. “But not so clear. It mostly feels like I am given only a shadowed glimpse of the truths I want, a seductive taste. There is so much more that I can’t see, but . . . I fear to touch it.”

  Merin shook his head. “Fear? Why?”

  “Because it’s so vast,” Renarin said. “When I hold onyx, I feel like there’s an immensity pressing against me, a force of incredible power. Or of incredible information. The two feel very similar to me now.”

  “A . . . force?” Merin asked. “Like the Almighty?”

  “Maybe,” Renarin said. “You see the winds when you hold that jade, but there is something more you can do, isn’t there? You have a power beyond simply seeing—a power to affect and change.”

  “Yes,” Merin said with surprise. “How did you know?”

  “The histories speak of it,” Renarin said. “When you change and direct the wind, rather than just see it, you expend the jade somehow, don’t you? Windrunners from the histories always needed a steady stream of jade to fuel their powers.”

  Merin glanced at his wrist, then nodded in acknowledgement—though he wasn’t certain if Renarin saw the gesture or not.

  “I think there’s something more I can do too,” Renarin said in a quiet, haunted voice. “A way to change, a way to find answers. A power greater than I see now, a way to do more than just guess at patterns—a way to see pure truth. When I hold my onyx, I can sense it, sense . . . something calling to me. A luring call to seek the knowledge that waits just out of view.”

  Renarin paused, looking up at Merin for the first time. His eyes were . . . chilling. “I fear to do it, Merin,” he whispered. “I fear what would happen to me if I seek those answers. In the histories, the seers never needed more onyx. They never expended it. I don’t know why.”

  Merin shivered. He glanced at Renarin’s hand, which clutched his familiar shard of onyx. Rubbing it with his finger. Caressing it.

  “Don’t do it,” Merin said impulsively. “Whatever it is, Renarin, don’t do it. These things we do . . . they’re dangerous. We don’t know enough about them.”

  Renarin nodded. “The Epellion have been lost for too long. I still can’t see what caused them to come back—it’s too closely related to why they disappeared in the first place.”

  “When I use my ability,” Merin said confessionally, “something happens to me. When I really use it, not just see with it. It brings me pain—a sharp, burning agony in my skin where I touch the jade.”

  “There must always be a cost, Merin,” Renarin said. “Nothing is ever achieved without a cost being paid.”

  “And my pain is that cost?” Merin asked.

  “No,” Renarin said with an almost amused tone as he turned back to toward the door. “No, the pain isn’t the cost, Merin. It’s just a side effect of the cost.”

  Merin shifted uncomfortably. “Then what is the cost?”

  Renarin didn’t answer. His eyes remained focused on the hole in his patterns.

  “Renarin?” Merin prodded.

  “I don’t know, Merin,” Renarin said, though Merin couldn’t tell if he were speak
ing about this amorphous cost, or about something completely different. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist. There are dangers coming, dangers that will affect everyone—not just us, not just kings and thrones. I saw hints of it when I worked in the cell, but this pattern . . . it shows me how ignorant I was.

  “Though I tried to make my calculations for the broad scope, every avenue I try focuses me back toward a single event. That is the hole you see there, the one question that defies every permutation.”

  Merin frowned, glancing toward the door. If he looked with a cocked head, it seemed like the hole in the writing were indeed a focal point of all the other patterns. Strings of numbers ran across walls, through massive collections and patterns, only to end abruptly at this one central . . . nothingness.

  “I can’t find the answer,” Renarin said. “Yet I need it. We need it. Without this, all of the different possibilities end the same . . .” He stopped, then turned toward Merin and whispered a single question, “How do you kill a man who cannot die?”

  The room fell still. Merin felt a sudden apprehensiveness strike him, a desire to run and flee, to escape the chill unnaturalness of Renarin’s cabin.

  Renarin turned away from him. “I need to start again,” he decided. “I can find the answer—I have to. I’ll need another room. Will you trade with me?”

  And come sleep in here, with all of these numbers staring at me? I’d sooner swim to Alethkar. “I’ll arrange for you to get a new cabin,” Merin said carefully.

  Renarin nodded distractedly, and Merin fled the room. Suddenly, the discomfort of sitting through another scouting report seemed blessedly tame.

  chapter 71

  Taln 11

  Taln could still hear the men riding away from him in terror, screaming as the waters roared toward them. He had done what he could to save them, trying so hard to scare them into deserting or retreating. Their commanders had been stubborn, however. At first, they had been determined to continue on toward Jasnah’s army. Eventually, their determination had instead become focused on finding the man who had killed their guards and scouts.

  They should have been frightened away. A lesser army would have been. However, it appeared that the descendants of the Epoch Kingdom of Vedenar retained their ancestor’s discipline and militaristic zealousness. They had always held such notions, even at their foundation so long ago, in the city then called Suur.

  And so, they had continued onward. True, some had fled, but not as many as Taln would have wished. Even after the desertions, even after he himself had killed a good fifty of their number, they had still been strong enough to crush Jasnah’s untrained force.

  He closed his eyes, trying not to think of the rushing waters—the highstorm flood, crashing through the narrow canyon. He’d killed their scouts;— they hadn’t known how small and high-walled the fissure would become. They were tired, slow to react. They had marched after him—the entire army, since none were willing to go alone—once he had revealed himself, as if by accident, as if caught by their trap. Instead, he had led them to a trap of his own.

  Men screamed in his memory—screamed as they were pulled beneath the waves, the powerful current smashing them against rocks. Man had always been a limp puppet before the powers of nature, and such was even more true here on Roshar, where the highstorms were so stark. Eight hundred men. Dead as Taln watched, holding to his Shardblade with slick hands, the weapon jammed at an angle into the stone wall to give him purchase. He should have died—a regular man probably would have—but he had felt the presence of his brethren pulsing through his Blade. He had to find them.

  The army had left some of its spare mounts at the entrance to the canyon. And the Awakener . . . well, Taln had been surprised to find the creature alive, sitting complacently at the bottom of the canyon once the waters receded. But Awakeners rarely acted as expected. Prael and Balear were far more learned Lhonomists than Taln; they might have been able to give an explanation. Taln had never understood Awakening very well, even when he did it himself.

  He opened his eyes with a sigh. He rode at the head of the re-inspired army, beside Jasnah and Meridas. With them rode five new Shardbearers, men who had received the weapons Taln had gathered from the fallen Veden soldiers. He had awarded three of the Blades to Jasnah’s guards, then grudgingly given the last two to Meridas’s nobleman attendants. The men were the only others in the army who had any real dueling experience.

  If Meridas had been surprised by Taln’s return, he had not revealed it. Already warned by the festivities, Meridas had received Taln like a monarch welcoming a returning hero—to do anything else would have revealed him as petty and jealous. He had accepted Taln’s gift of the Shardblades as if given to himself—in fact, as if they had been expected. Taln had left that night less certain of his ability to regain control of the army.

  Regardless of its leader, however, the army marched under Taln’s name. They walked behind, proud and reassured that they had made the right decision in joining him. The believers felt vindicated; the disbelivers were more inclined to listen to his warnings. Neither group would ever truly know what he had done for them, never understand what it cost. He should never be forced to kill men.

  Yet their Herald had returned. Their devotion was too close to worship, he knew. He had rebuked the ‘prophet’ who had claimed to preach in Taln’s name, but such a man was more a symptom than a problem. Still, for the moment, Taln did nothing about their devotion. There would be time to teach correct truths once he was certain that mankind was prepared to face the challenge that lay ahead.

  With three thousand years of life behind him, it was rare for Taln to feel impatience. Yet he had felt a remarkable amount of anticipation as they rode that day, the army’s speed seeming frustratingly lethargic. His brethren waited just a short distance ahead. Once he found them, everything would be all right. They would know what to do.

  Finally the army crested a hillside and looked down at the ruins of what had once been Jorevan, the Holy City. Taln despaired to see what had become of its beauty. Once, it had been one of the three most magnificent cities in Roshar—a monument to the Almighty and His worship. Now only rubble remained of its fine metals and polished marble. Instead of alabaster, the city was a dull grey. Its massive streets, once lined with statues, were broken and weathered. Its careful architecture was grown over with moss-like cromstone, the patina gift of a thousand highstorms.

  An army waited in front of the city. It was easily three thousand in number, and its men were well-equipped. Metal armors shone in the sunlight, and there were even two archer-filled towers.

  “At least we hold the Shardblade edge,” Meridas noted, studying the field.

  “We needn’t go to arms against them,” Taln said, nodding toward the already-constructed parlay tent. “This is not an enemy army, but a force gathered by my brethren.”

  Meridas rolled his eyes toward one of his attendants, who smiled at the gesture. Jasnah held up a hand before any banter could ensue.

  “I will speak for us,” she said. “And do the negotiations. You two will remain silent—both of you.”

  Taln frowned, an action mimicked by Meridas. “A woman cannot—” Meridas began.

  Jasnah quieted him with a stare. She had given her order, and they were both sworn to obey. “Kemnar, choose twenty men to join us as an honor guard. Leave the army in Vinde’s command. He, with the other four Shardbearers, are to remain here. In case of a trap, I don’t want all of our Blades in one place.”

  She kicked her horse into motion and they followed, Meridas frowning at the necessity of leaving his two attendants behind. As they approached, Taln was able to make out a man waiting beneath the parlay canopy. He sat at the table, his posture unconcerned—this was a man who understood that he clearly held the advantage.

  Lord Aneazer was a gruff-looking man with a wild mane of greying hair. He wore a full beard, also grey, and utilitarian clothing. He looked more like some crazy hermit than he did a m
ilitary commander—or, at least, he did until one looked into his eyes. They were solid, the eyes of a man who yielded little and suffered no foolishness.

  Jasnah dismounted. She had composed herself from the previous night’s storm-filled oddity, and again wore her practiced political face, her hair done up with perfection, her motions graceful and controlled. Taln and Meridas dismounted as well, walking beside her. There was only one seat on their side of the table, and Jasnah took it without hesitation.

  Taln entered the shade of the canopy, searching among Lord Aneazer’s companions. They were hardened warriors in metal and leather, and not a one was familiar. Taln touched the hilt of his Blade, feeling for his brethren—they still waited ahead, in the city.

  “Who is the Herald?” Aneazer asked bluntly, and Taln smiled. His brethren had warned of his approach.

  Jasnah didn’t betray surprise. “That is him,” she said, nodding toward Taln.

  Aneazer studied Taln for a moment. “You could have found someone who looked a bit more heroic,” he said. “This man is burly, but hardly the pretty face people expect from a Herald.”

  Taln frowned, but Jasnah continued without pause. “He was the best man for the position,” she said. “He can make others believe in him.”

  Aneazer grunted. “I guess that is what matters.” He eyed Jasnah. “You have the look of a Kholin. Raising troops, I assume. But for which army and which king?”

  Jasnah betrayed none of the confusion Taln felt. “Does my position matter to you?”

  “It does if you have sided with the loser instead of the victor,” Aneazer said with a grunt. “So which is it, Jasnah Kholin? Which do you follow, your brother or your uncle?”

  “I no longer support my brother’s right to the throne,” Jasnah said smoothly. Though she was undoubtedly as lost as Taln, she seemed confident, as if she were the one holding the advantage and Aneazer the one who needed to bargain. Taln had heard of her political savvy, her uncanny ability to dominate a court, but he had rarely seen it applied. She had always been more open with him—though he suspected that was because she saw nothing to gain from him, rather than because she felt more familiar with him.