not have done what, Jasnah?” he snapped. “Would you command my men
as well as lead my armies? Am I not king?”
Jasnah closed her mouth, grinding her teeth as Elhokar sighed and
took another drink. She had to be calm. The harder she pushed, the more
difficult Elhokar would become.
“Who did you give the Blade to?” she asked in a more reserved voice.
“No one, yet,” Elhokar said, moving toward the far side of the tent and
pulling open one of the window flaps. “I might give it to Meridas.”
Jasnah exhaled softly in annoyance.
“What?” Elhokar asked.
“I don’t trust him. Meridas is too . . . calculating.” Too clever. I can’t watch everyone for you, Elhokar.
Her brother snorted. “You don’t trust anyone, my dear sister. Sometimes I
wonder if you even trust me.” He looked at her. After a moment, he simply
chuckled and turned to stare out the window flap toward the south. He held up a hand—cutting Jasnah off even as she opened her mouth.
“Very well,” he said. “Perhaps I was too hard on Renarin. I will try and
think of a way to make it up to Dalenar. Is that sufficient?”
She didn’t reply, but he knew her silence—signifying the end of the
argument—was word enough.
“This should be a day of joy, not anger,” Elhokar said, still staring out
the window. “Regardless of the methods, our father is avenged.”
“And the war is over,” Jasnah said, stepping around the water he’d dripped on the floor and moving toward him.
Elhokar did not answer. He continued to stare out the window. Toward
the south. Toward the free kingdoms of Distant Prall—a collection of
loosely-organized states, young and tempestuous, with weak militaries
and weaker alliances.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 33
“Elhokar?” Jasnah asked, stepping up behind him. “The war is over. The
Traitor is dead.”
“And if we were to . . . continue?” Elhokar asked without turning.
“You would become a tyrant?” Jasnah asked.
“The difference between a tyrant and a liberator depends on who
writes the history,” Elhokar said.
“The difference between a tyrant and a liberator, Elhokar, is one of intention. Would you conquer those people for their benefit, or for your own?”
Elhokar stood for a moment, then snorted quietly, turning from the
window and walking away from her, toward his chair on the other side
of the tent. “You sound like Dalenar, always spouting morality at me from
The Way of Kings.”
The king eased into his chair. As he settled back, she could see the
fatigue behind the ambition. And beneath that . . . a young boy, desperate for validation.
“Elhokar,” she said softly, “your men are tired, your lands are overbur-
dened, and you are exhausted. The kingdoms of Distant Prall have had
enough suffering and conflict—do not bring them a war no one needs.”
Elhokar didn’t respond.
“You have a wife waiting for you, Elhokar,” Jasnah continued. “And a son
you barely know. You’ve proven that the Kholin line is strong—you brought
justice to the man who killed our father, and you destroyed the kingdom
that harbored him. Our scouts say Orinjah is defenseless—we could take
the city within five days, and the Prallan Oathgate would be ours. We could be home before the month is over.”
Elhokar glanced toward the south one last time, then met her eyes. “Very
well,” he said. “We will return.”
Jasnah sighed quietly in relief. “There is one other thing,” she said.
“Speak quickly,” Elhokar said. “I’m tired from the battle.”
“It’s about the second battlefield, the one where you found the Traitor
dead.”
“What about it?” Elhokar asked, his face darkening at her mention of
the Traitor.
“Well, don’t you find it a bit odd?” Jasnah asked. “Twenty thousand men,
killed by five? And in such a short time—barely two hours?”
“It could be done,” Elhokar said. “Four-to-one isn’t real y that bad of odds.”
It’s far worse than I’d ever want to face, Jasnah thought. “Something’s wrong, Elhokar. The death of the Traitor . . . the faceless Shardbearer who attacked you . . .”
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“You’re being paranoid again, sister,” Elhokar said with a wave of his
hand. “Go speak to Dalenar about these things, if you must. He was
muttering about something similar on the battlefield. In fact, go speak to him now—leave me in peace. It has been a difficult day.”
Jasnah frowned, but bit off a response, instead turning to leave the king
to his ‘peace.’ She had gotten what she wanted from him.
The war was finally over.
chapter 3
MERIN 1
The monks taught that wind was the voice of the Almighty. The
storms were His fury—a tempest to remind of His omnipotent will.
The gentle breezes were His love—a calm reminder that He was watching,
and that He cared for those below.
From his haze of near-wakefulness, Merin could feel the wind blowing
across his face. Despite the slight pounding in his head, he lay peacefully, letting the wind soothe him. Wherever he had gone in life, the wind had
been his companion. It had blown over his back as he worked the fields
back in Alethkar. It had ruffled his cloak as he marched across lonely stormlands in Prallah. It had been behind his spear as he fought in the King’s
Army. At times, Merin thought he could feel the presence of the Almighty,
that he could hear the wind before it arrived. Then he knew that he was not alone. Someone was watching over him.
He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes. The tent ceiling overhead
was unexpected. He groaned slightly, propping himself up. He lay on a
comfortable mat in a large, open-sided tent. He recognized it—he had
helped put it up on several occasions. It was the healer’s tent—but he was on the wrong side. He wasn’t lying with the regular soldiers, but was instead on a special pallet, over in the . . .
“Merin!” a voice exclaimed.
Merin turned as a couple of figures approached, smiling. Ren, Sanas,
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and Vezin were spearmen from his squad—spearmen, like himself, who
had come from small Tenth Vil ages in rural Alethkar. As they approached,
Merin sensed a hesitance in their faces.
“Uh, are you feeling better, my lord?” Sanas asked as the men paused
beside Merin’s pallet, just inside the tent.
Merin frowned. “Lord? Who are you . . . ?” then he saw it. Sitting at the
end of his cot, lying across the top of a cloth-wrapped package.
A Shardblade.
It came back to him. He had been on the battlefield, in his formation.
Orders had come from the generals to divide the enemy troops, splitting
them along the fissure created by the king’s honor guard. Merin’s squad
had fought on the eastern internal flank, pushing the enemy back, making
way for their towers to roll forward.
Then he had come. The martial force that every spearman feared, yet every spearman dreamed of defeating. A Shardbearer.
Riding a massive war stallion, his armor unadorned, the man had cut
through the Aleth ranks with ease, slaughtering foot
men, batting away
spears. That blade had cut the tip from Merin’s own weapon as it passed,
leaving him with a useless stub. The soldier standing beside him had died
with an almost casual swipe of the Shardbearer’s weapon.
Merin had watched the king’s horse die from a single blow. He had seen his squad scattering in fear before the deadly blade. And . . . he had run. Dropping his broken spear, he had dashed forward, and . . .
“By the winds,” Merin mumbled. “That has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done!”
“It worked, though,” Ren said quietly, looking toward the end of the mat.
Merin paused. He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying. It can’t be . . .
Merin slowly pulled the blanket off his legs and knelt before the sword,
ignoring the pain in his head. He reached forward tentatively, running
his fingers along the blade. It was enormous, almost as long as a footman’s spear. The weapon glistened silvery, but the design of the metal made it
seem as if it were crafted from thousands of small quartz gemstones. Four
intricate glyphs were etched into the blade, subtly created by the orientation of the quartz pattern.
“It’s . . .” Merin trailed off. It was his. He grabbed the handle with
suddenly eager fingers, hefting the Blade.
“Wow,” he mumbled. “It’s a lot heavier than I thought it would be. The
stories always say Shardblades are light!”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 37
Of course, it was a lot lighter than a weapon its size would normally
have been. Even with two years of spearman’s training, Merin probably
wouldn’t have been strong enough to lift such a massive weapon if it had
been constructed of normal steel. The Shardblade was heavy, but no heavier than a regular sword.
“Here,” he said, turning to the others. “Try it.”
The three spearmen didn’t move.
“What?” Merin asked.
“You’re not supposed to let anyone else hold your Blade, um, my lord,”
Sanas said. “They told us to wait here until you awakened, to make sure
nothing happened to the Blade. Now that you’re up, we’re supposed to go
back to the squad camp . . .”
Merin moved to stand. “I’ll go with you. It would be good to see everyone.”
The three exchanged awkward glances. “Um, if you want to, my lord . . .”
Sanas said.
Merin paused. Even the normally enthusiastic Ren seemed reserved.
They were obviously happy to see him awake, but they were still . . . un-
comfortable.
“Maybe I’ll just wait here,” Merin said.
The three smiled. “You’re a lord now, Merin,” Sanas explained. “A Fifth Lord. You don’t belong with spearmen. But, well . . . you give us hope. It’s good to know someone made it, after all the talk and stories.”
“Everyone in the army heard about you,” Ren said eagerly. “You saved the
king’s life! Old captain Tunac wasn’t very happy when you got the Blade
instead, but what’s he going to do about it? Eh, uh, my lord?” The short
man chuckled.
The three stood awkwardly for a moment. Then they bowed and left.
Merin watched them go, fingers still resting on the hilt of the Shardblade.
You’re a lord now. It was unfathomable.
Outside, he could see signs of the camp breaking down. No wonder his
friends needed to return—deconstructing camp was an enormous task,
and every hand was needed. Merin turned, motioning toward a healer. The
aging man looked up, then quickly rushed over to Merin’s mat.
“Yes, my lord?” he asked. His sleeves and clothing were speckled with
blood, and his posture was tired.
“Um, yes,” Merin said. How exactly did one speak like a lord, anyway?
“Why are we breaking down camp?”
“The Traitor is dead, my lord,” the healer explained, eager to help despite
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his obvious weariness. “As is the Prallan king. The war is ours—Lord
Elhokar plans to march on Orinjah before the day is out.”
Over. They had known it would end this day, one way or another. Captain
Tunac had said this would probably be Pralir’s last stand.
“Are you feeling better, my lord?” the healer asked. “You took a strong
blow to the head, and slept all through the night. You woke a few times, but you were dazed and incoherent.”
“I don’t remember that,” Merin confessed. “My head hurts a little bit,
but I think I’m all right.”
“Might I recommend a little more rest, my lord?” the man asked.
Merin glanced toward the camp. Everyone had something to do. It felt
wrong to sleep when everyone was so busy. “Am I allowed to leave?” Merin
asked.
“Of course, my lord. Just don’t do anything too strenuous, and check
back with the healers at the end of the day.”
Merin nodded, and the healer withdrew. As the man left, however,
Merin realized something. “Healer,” he called.
The elderly healer turned, eyebrow raised. “Yes, my lord?”
“What is it I’m supposed to do? As a lord, I mean?”
“I’m not sure, my lord,” the man said with amusement. “Perhaps that
would be a question best asked of another lord.”
“Good idea,” Merin said, climbing out of his bed. He was a bit dizzy
as he stood, but the wave passed quickly. He reached over and picked up
the Shardblade, then regarded the package underneath.
“Your Shardplate, my lord,” the healer explained helpfully. “I can send
some packmen for it, if you wish.”
“Yes, that would be wonderful,” Merin said. He stepped outside the tent,
standing in the morning light, and stopped.
Now what?
He thought for a moment, then glanced down at his Shardblade. There
was one thing he’d always wondered. He walked over to a large boulder,
then raised the Blade and thrust it into the stone.
The ballads had exaggerated a bit. The Shardblade didn’t ‘cut through
stone like the breezes cut the air.’ There was a resistance to his pushing, but with a small amount of effort, he was able to slide the blade into
the boulder up to its hilt.
Merin pulled the blade free, looking down at it with wonder. He backed
up, hefting the Blade up over his shoulder, and swung with a mighty
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 39
two-handed blow. The Blade sheared through the middle of the boulder—
as if the momentum somehow increased the weapon’s sharpness—and
whipped out the other side to slice clean through one of the healing tent’s support poles.
The tent lurched slightly, one side drooping. Healers and patients alike
looked out at a sheepish Merin, who lowered his Shardblade. “Uh, sorry!”
he called before blushing and hurrying away.
Still, the exhilaration of the moment did not pass. He finally let himself believe what had happened. He was a Shardbearer—he outranked a good
three quarters of the noble population. Only the lords of independent cities and their heirs were of a higher stature than Shardbearers. To capture a
Blade on the field of battle . . . it was the dream of every lowly footman. It was the possibility that spawned stories, the hope that gave normal men
the courage to face a Shardbearer, despite their bleak chances of success.
But it had happened to Merin.
&
nbsp; His enthusiasm dulled slightly, however, as he reached the camp’s main
thoroughfare. To his right, in the distance, he could see the white-and-blue banner marking Zircon Tensquad, his home of the last three years. A
home to which he could not return.
He looked down at the Blade. It was awkward to carry with its incredible
length and super-sharp edge. It glistened in the sunlight, its quartz-like patterns shimmering. Apparently, they would fade over time. The markings
were a manifestation of the bond the sword had had with its master—a
man who was now dead.
He couldn’t return to Zircon Tensquad, but that was only a manifestation
of a larger issue. What of home? What of Stonemount, with its fields and
simple farmers? No Shardbearers lived in small tribute vil ages—the ballads said they were needed at the sides of their lords, to go to war or to duel for honor. He would never be able to return to Stonemount. But he had no
lordly family to honor and protect. He no longer had a place—not really a
citizen, but not really a lord either.
Not really a lord at all. Merin knew all the songs, from “The Chron-
icle of the First Return” to “The Storms of Summer.” He wasn’t a man
like those in the stories. He was a boy who had acted without thought.
His rescuing of the king had been done out of reflex and luck, not out
of heroism. He hadn’t even really killed the enemy Shardbearer, only
distracted him.
This shouldn’t be mine, Merin thought. Surely someone will realize that.
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He looked up, turning from Zircon Tensquad’s tents and looking to the
northern side of the camp—toward the tents of the noblemen. He would
find his answers there.
He began walking through the camp. Men bustled around him, collaps-
ing tents, carrying supplies, packing equipment. Once, he would have been
befuddled by the enormous number of people. Stonemount was a Tenth
City, a village of less than five hundred people. The tens of thousands that comprised the King’s Army had amazed him. Over time, however, the
amazing had become mundane.
He passed massive chul s rested within their pens, the sound of crunching
rockbuds echoing from within their boulder-like shells. Dark-eyed Kaven
tribesmen watched him as he passed, speaking to each other in their
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 6
