The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  He sat on a rock, body fatigued from climbing up the other side of the Rift. Now that Elhokar had destroyed the ramp down, it made a great deal of sense to climb up a similar incline on the other side, thereby removing any chances of attack from above. Unfortunately, the nearest ramp up had been several hours away.

  That night’s march had been the most difficult of the last few weeks. Dalenar had forced his men forward after just two hours of rest, joining Elhokar’s force as they marched their way through the sheer valley and finally up another ramp, this one much steeper than the first.

  He still wore his Plate. Not only did it look good for the men, but it gave him strength and stamina—both of which he had needed after giving up his horse to help carry the wounded.

  Dalenar closed his eyes, sighing in exhaustion. But he didn’t want to sleep, not yet. The rock upon which he sat lay a short distance from the edge of the camp, beyond the range of the moanings of the wounded and the evening lanternlight. He’d left both officers and honor guard behind, finding solitary quiet in the night to seek some serenity of thought.

  It was slow in coming. His exchange with Elhokar would only fuel the sense of hopelessness in both camps. It was bad to be seen arguing with one’s allies even in the best of times—now, with the armies held together only tenuously, the kingdom on the very edge of being conquered, Dalenar feared his temper would bring a terrible cost.

  “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?” a voice asked—a familiar voice.

  Dalenar looked up. Elhokar was alone, his golden armor scratched and scarred. How tired was Dalenar that he hadn’t heard a man in Plate approaching?

  The king walked forward, looking up at the sky. In the east, dawn’s light was beginning to warm. They had marched all night—no wonder Dalenar felt so fatigued.

  “It’s not like Prallah at all,” Elhokar said. “Not cold or bitter, but temperate and calm, even outside the laits. I spent so long there, I almost forgot what it was like back home.”

  “It’s peaceful now,” Dalenar said quietly. “But the storms will come. They always do.”

  Elhokar nodded, and for the first time, Dalenar could see the exhaustion in the boy’s face. The gouge on his face bore no bandage, and his eyes were red from tiredness. All masks dropped, Elhokar seemed to be nothing more than a haggard, worn-out man. He stopped beside Dalenar’s rock, then squatted down.

  “I should have enjoyed the time before the storm a bit more, I think,” Elhokar said. “I was too worried about my preparations.”

  “To attack Crossguard?” Dalenar asked.

  Elhokar nodded. “I knew it was coming. I knew it from the day Jezenrosh left the Pralir campaign to marshal the nobility against me. I know what you think of me, Uncle. I suspect you might be right. But I’ve tried to do as I must—tried to do what would keep Alethkar safe.”

  “You shouldn’t have attacked, Elhokar,” Dalenar said. “There are other ways. And even if Jezenrosh had come against you, the nobility would have stood with you. I would have stood with you.”

  Elhokar shook his head. “I’m not sure of that,” he said. “You don’t know what Jezenrosh was telling them, do you?”

  Dalenar frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “He came to me with it first, in Pralir,” Elhokar said in a worn voice. He seemed a man drained, sucked free of strength, determination, and even hope. “He claimed that the war in Prallah was without merit, that I was leading the men to conquer, not to avenge my father.”

  “Men make such claims about all wars,” Dalenar said.

  “No, this was different,” Elhokar said. “You see, Uncle, Jezenrosh claimed that the entire foundation for our war was false. He said he had proof that the Traitor didn’t kill my father.”

  Dalenar paused. The morning suddenly seemed a bit colder. “Proof?” he asked. “What proof?”

  “A witness,” Elhokar said. “He even produced the man, though I didn’t believe his claims. That’s what we argued about. Jezenrosh’s argument was foundless, of course, but he held to it. When he gathered my enemies against me, this was the lie he told them. Your son believed it. Aredor spat in my face and called me a conqueror, claiming I knew that the Traitor was innocent. I shouldn’t have struck him, but I did, and I was wearing Plate . . .”

  Dalenar closed his eyes.

  “I couldn’t let those lies continue, Uncle,” Elhokar said, a bit of his usual passion returning. “Jezenrosh would have corrupted the kingdom with his tales. Before long, the Traitor would have become a martyr to them. Pralir would have risen against us, and there would have been chaos.”

  “There is chaos now,” Dalenar said quietly, opening his eyes.

  Elhokar was still for a moment. “I know,” he finally said. He bowed his head. “Nanavah’s gone.”

  Dalenar frowned. “What?”

  “Talshekh doesn’t lead that army,” Elhokar said. “I finally got a spy close enough to find out who leads the Veden forces—it’s Ahven Vedenel, Nanavah’s brother. I don’t know who is controlling him; the soldiers in his army evidently believe that his mind has been healed by the Almighty, and that he’s been given a charge to attack Alethkar. A convenient way to get around Bajerden’s forbiddance of conquering.”

  “Men always find ways,” Dalenar said.

  “Anyway, Nanavah must have decided that she would be safer with her brother than with me. She slipped away as we retreated, and by the time I discovered she was gone, I had already destroyed the ramp. She took my son with her.”

  “I’m . . . sorry,” Dalenar said.

  Elhokar shook his head. “She might be right. I didn’t want her to go—​I . . . needed her strength. This is so hard, Uncle. All of it is so hard. Everywhere I turn, I find another enemy. I can’t do what I need to in order to protect the kingdom, for old rules and traditions confine me. And even when I do find a way to try and defend the throne, I discover I’ve only led the kingdom into an even worse storm.”

  The boy stood, turning from Dalenar and facing south. Toward Ral Eram, or toward the army behind? Eventually, Elhokar turned toward him again.

  “You know why I’ve come to you.”

  Dalenar nodded, forcing himself to his feet. “This cannot go on,” he agreed. “The men need a leader. One leader, not two.”

  Smoke curled around Elhokar’s palm, trailing out to form a sword. In the east, dawn broke.

  “If it matters, Uncle,” Elhokar said, raising his Blade. “I forgive you for what you have done. You didn’t know about Jezenrosh. I never believed you a traitor, not really.”

  Dalenar summoned his own Blade, and looked into Elhokar’s eyes. There was a question therein.

  “You killed my son, Elhokar,” Dalenar said regretfully, raising his own weapon. “You will get no forgiveness from me. Your sorrow does not change the fact that you’ve led our kingdom to destruction.”

  Elhokar nodded. The change Dalenar had noted before was again evident in the man’s face. He was harder now, stronger. Perhaps he had learned. One thing was certain, he looked more like his father now than he ever had.

  Can I do this? Dalenar thought with exhaustion. Can I kill your son, Nolhonarin? This was the boy Dalenar had trained to duel, Nolhonarin’s only son. All Dalenar had ever wanted during those years was to serve the brother he loved. What was there left for Dalenar now? Two sons dead, the other likely having joined them. His brothers had both gone to the Almighty as well. His honor would never be the same again, after having made a grab for the throne. What was left of Dalenar that was worth keeping?

  Elhokar bowed, then fell into a dueling stance. Dalenar prepared himself. There was one last service he could perform for his beloved brother and king. He could let Nolhonarin’s son live to atone for his mistakes.

  At that moment, Dalenar realized something. The thought of sacrificing his life to Elhokar’s Blade didn’t sadden him. He was ready to die—he’d been ready to die for some time now.

  Blade met Blade in the peace of morn
ing, and the duel began.

  chapter 82

  Jasnah 18

  Good sunrises were rare in the summer. Once, during Jasnah’s youth, a stormkeeper had explained the reason. In the summer, there weren’t enough clouds to reflect the sunlight, and the most vivid colors required their distorting interference. Without clouds, the light simply escaped into the sky, bland and uniform.

  Jasnah watched the sunrise anyway. She sat beside the open window-flap of her tent, waiting as the horizon came alight like a ribbon of fire. False dawn rose in the east, heralding the coming of morning like messengers before an army. The sun itself was a majestic king, sending forth its spearmen and archers to brighten the land. There were no brilliant colors, true, but Jasnah was not disappointed. This was not a time for subtle artistry. It was a day that needed power and strength—not reflections or distortions. This day, the sun rose not to provide beauty, but to fulfill its greater duty of illuminating the land.

  A hand fell lightly on her shoulder. Jasnah turned, giving Meridas a flat glare. The man knelt in a lord’s traditional evening clothes—loose seasilk trousers and a matching, open-fronted shirt.

  Meridas bore her stare for a few moments, then obediently withdrew his hand. She had moved into his tent to keep up appearances, but there were two sleeping pallets. She intended to maintain this one last reservation as long as she could.

  Meridas smiled as he stood. He knew, as she did, that he would prove the eventual victor in this struggle. Her position of power as his wife was too vital to risk letting him continue long without a heir.

  He stretched, then pushed apart the dividing flap and left the sleeping chamber for another section of the pavilion. Jasnah shivered as he left. Being vulnerable before him—wearing only a light sleeping robe, her left hand exposed, her hair loose—unnerved her more than she would admit.

  She sighed, then rose to go about her morning preparations. The army’s brief stop in Kholinar had provided a host of comforts, not the least of which included two more Awakeners to help provide food and fresh water for the army. Jasnah now had a group of trained lady’s maids to attend her—no more masculine-cut clothing and unprimped features would mar her image. Yet as she submitted to their care this morning she couldn’t help longing for the days in Riemak when she had taken care of herself. There was a strength in seeing to one’s own needs, an independence Jasnah had never known before.

  When the maids finished—Jasnah’s face expertly painted, her hair combed and braided, her clothing immaculate and colorful—she was ready to be presented to the world.

  Not that it mattered any more. The addition of reserve forces from Kholinar had swelled the army’s numbers to nearly eight thousand, but Jasnah had very little to do with their management any more. Her marriage to Meridas had elevated him in most people’s eyes, signaling a unification of power in the camp. While the people still considered themselves the Herald’s Army, Meridas was universally accepted as the unnamed second in command.

  Her loss of control was not an enormous problem, however. Jasnah had achieved her goals. Messengers had been sent to Dalenar, warning of the invasion, and the army itself was marching to him. As long as these things happened, Jasnah didn’t really care who directed the daily operations of the camp.

  By the time she was washed, clothed, and fed, the rest of the army was nearly ready to march. She had forgotten how long things could take when one was attended by proper maids—during the previous part of their march, Jasnah would have overseen the feeding of the men, the disassembling of sub-camps, and the organization of the marching columns. Now she barely had time to finish off her morning meal before the soldiers came to break down Meridas’s pavilion and stow it in the supply carts.

  Her litter waited outside. Jasnah shuffled over to it—though a week had passed since her return to ‘luxury,’ she had yet to reaccustom herself to the talla’s restrictive motion. She waited patiently while the soldiers worked on the pavilion—the same men would become her litter-bearers once they were finished.

  As the men worked, she turned toward the main body of the army, watching as its members moved about now-familiar patterns of organization. She felt some measure of pride as she watched them. What had been refugees, wandering mercenaries, and isolated farmers had become an army beneath her tutelage. Though they had no formal uniforms, they marched with increasing cohesion. Kholinar and Aneazer had armed them, and each men carried a weapon of good worth—most even had good armor, scavenged from the dead Veden force at Kholinar. Taln’s training had proven remarkably effective, considering its limited time. The man had an amazing ability to change peasants into soldiers—somewhere in his past, he had done such before.

  Thoughts of the would-be Herald prompted her to seek him out with her eyes. He was not difficult to spot. Taln always stood at the center of activity—though she wasn’t certain whether that was because he sought it out, or because he created motion and activity wherever he went. A gathering of soldiers and guards stood around him, giving advice and taking orders. The sight gave her a smile; no effort on Meridas’s part, even marrying Jasnah, had shaken free the people’s reliance upon Taln. Rather the opposite, actually. Even Lord Aneazer’s mercenaries were beginning to accept Taln’s divine authority. He made a powerful symbol, standing broad-chested and self-assured, always calm and friendly, ever competent at his duties. Few sane men could claim such an impressive list of credentials. Jasnah watched him with pride.

  Taln made a few more commands, then apparently excused himself from the group. As he began walking, Jasnah realized with a start that he was moving toward her tent.

  She quickly composed herself, pretending that she hadn’t been staring in his direction. He had spoken with her little during the past week, as was proper. She was now married—it would not do for the men to think her unfaithful to her union.

  Besides. She could see the hurt in his eyes—he had always been easy to read, considering his supposed age. She had rejected him. Perhaps he understood the necessity of her actions—the two of them were obviously incompatible. However, that knowledge obviously didn’t lessen his hurt.

  Nor did it hers.

  She adopted a look of passive curiosity as he approached. “Lord Talenel,” she said respectfully as he paused beside her litter.

  “Lady Jasnah,” he replied, nodding slightly. “I thought you would wish to know that the scouts have located your brother’s army. If the Aleth armies remain where they are, we should reach them by mid-afternoon.”

  “That close?” Jasnah asked with surprise.

  Taln nodded. “They’re camped near the Rift of Northal, due east. The scouts mark their numbers at just over twenty thousand.”

  So few! Jasnah thought with concern. “The Veden army?”

  “Camped on the other side of the rift, obviously waiting to move until your brother does.” He paused. “The invaders have a force about twice the size of your brother’s army.”

  Jasnah closed her eyes. Strength. At least they still live. “Is Lord Dalenar with them?” she asked, opening her eyes, keeping her voice firm.

  “Both flags fly,” Taln said. “We can assume they’re both there.”

  Jasnah nodded. “Thank you, Lord Herald. I rarely get the scout reports in a timely manner, these days.”

  “I know,” Taln said. He appeared to have nothing more to say, but he did not leave. The silence soon became awkward. Eventually, he turned from her, moving to walk back toward his command group.

  “Taln,” she said after him, making him pause. “I haven’t . . . been with him. Our arrangement is political, not physical.”

  Taln turned. He stepped closer. “We made our decisions, Jasnah,” he said softly. “Even though I didn’t realize what I was agreeing to at the time, I hold to it. What you do is for the good of Alethkar, and what I do is for the good of all Roshar. I learned long ago that the love of one cannot be allowed to overrule the love of all. What good would my affection be if it came with the taint of an
entire race abandoned?”

  Jasnah nodded, keeping back tears. She wished that she could make it work, that she could have everything—the safety of Alethkar, the love of Taln, and the willingness to ignore his madness.

  Unfortunately, for the first time in her life, she had finally found something that she couldn’t manipulate, contrive, or undo. Taln wouldn’t be bent by her, and that made him all the more precious.

  “You will always have my heart, Jasnah,” he said softly. “However, Roshar must always have my sword.” He nodded to her with a slight half-bow, then turned and walked back toward the front of the army.

  They found Dalenar’s army just after midday. Jasnah watched through the side of her litter as they approached, expecting to see relieved enthusiasm from Elhokar’s men. Instead, the men gave only wan, half-hearted cheers. Many of them didn’t even do that much—they simply stood and watching as her troop entered their midst. Their faces were marked with fatigue and depression. They looked as if they didn’t have the will to celebrate, especially since her force was obviously too small to save them outright.

  What have these men been through? Jasnah thought with horror as her bearers carried her into the center of camp. The men seemed half-dead, their eyes empty and fatigued.

  She knocked for her bearers to put her down, then pushed her drapes open fully. “See if you can locate my brother or Lord Dalenar,” she ordered one of the men.

  The lead bearer nodded, moving off. Jasnah sat patiently, waiting for a response. The five hours of marching had done her good, allowing her to reaffirm her internal logic. Everything had grown . . . messy with Taln’s arrival in Alethkar. She couldn’t afford to let herself grow distracted—the kingdom would need her focused if they were to overcome current threats.

  Minutes passed before her bearer returned. His face was troubled. “My lady,” he said. “I believe . . . you should come see this.”