Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

by The Way of Kings Prime (ALTERNATIVE VERSION) (pdf)

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 63

  respected man in all of Alethkar. He was vital both political y and martial y, especially since Jezenrosh—Elhokar’s other Parshen—had withdrawn to his palace, complaining of sickness.

  It wasn’t good for both Parshen to be absent for Elhokar’s return. The king’s Parshen were supposed to be his two most loyal supporters, and Elhokar had managed to alienate them both.

  “Parshen Dalenar and his sons returned to Kholinar soon after passing through the Oathgates,” Kemnar informed in a quiet voice, returning to

  her side. “They spoke to no one.”

  Jasnah ground her teeth, shooting a frustrated look at the Aleth

  Oathgate—an archway with a stiff triangular top, crafted completely of

  jade and studded with sapphires. It led to Kholinar, the former capital

  of Alethkar, the estate where her father had lived before he conquered the First City. Now Dalenar ruled there, and he had apparently decided to

  return instead of remaining for the victory celebrations.

  “Jasnah, come and greet your nephew,” Elhokar said, turning with a

  smile, Ahrden squirming in his grasp.

  Jasnah put on a calm feminine face, stepping forward with a smooth

  gait—she would have to deal with Dalenar at another time. For the mo-

  ment, she had other worries—in the form of a red-haired woman at the

  king’s side. More plump than Shinri, Queen Nanavah Vedelen betrayed

  the same distinctly Veden features: round features and reddish hair,

  though Nanavah’s was far more blonde than Shinri’s. Nanavah was also

  more sturdily built than Shinri, a Veden trait that had apparently bypassed Jasnah’s young ward.

  Nanavah was not only Elhokar’s wife, but sister to the king of Vedenar,

  the kingdom directly to the south. Though the Idiot King Ahven was

  generally regarded with little seriousness, Nanavah’s line made her a very important woman.

  “Lady Jasnah,” Nanavah said with a comely smile as Jasnah approached.

  Jasnah nodded back, but inside she frowned. The last time she had seen

  Nanavah—nearly a year before—the young queen had still been visibly

  furious with Jasnah. Either Nanavah had overcome her hatred, or she had

  learned to mask it. Jasnah seriously doubted the former was possible.

  “Where is Dalenar?” Elhokar said, pausing as he handed his son back

  to an attendant.

  “He returned to Kholinar,” Jasnah replied.

  Elhokar’s expression darkened.

  “My lord,” Jasnah said before he could respond, “Lord Dalenar has a

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  family and a city to care for as well. I am certain he will return in time for the feast. Let him go to greet his betrothed.”

  It was a thin excuse, considering Dalenar’s opinion of being betrothed to

  a woman so young, but Elhokar seemed to accept it. As soon as he turned

  back to his crowd, Jasnah motioned Kemnar to the side.

  “You want me to make certain the Parshen does as you said,” Kemnar assumed.

  Jasnah nodded. “Impress upon my uncle the . . . importance of his

  solidarity. Make certain you mention the word ‘duty.’”

  Kemnar nodded, heading for the Kholinar Oathgate. Jasnah masked her

  worries again, and turned a composed face toward the crowd of nobility.

  “Come,” Elhokar said, his voice firm—as if the result of built-up deter-

  mination. “Let us visit my mother.”

  Nothing made Jasnah feel her age more than looking down at her

  mother, and knowing the woman was dying. True, Jasnah was still in

  her fourth decade, but her mother was only in her sixth. Lady Ezavah

  Sheledar looked far older than her fifty-six years. Airy, almost skeletal, in form, the woman seemed to be aging with every heartbeat. When Jasnah

  had last visited, the former queen had seemed near-death. Yet, somehow,

  Ezavah had grown worse since then. It seemed impossible that the wan

  figure in the bed was even alive.

  “She has not awoken, I assume?” Elhokar asked, his voice solemn as he

  knelt beside the bed. Jasnah stood at his side, Nanavah behind her husband.

  The room’s only other two occupants were a single nobleman guard and the

  stormkeeper who acted as Ezavah’s healer.

  “No, my lord,” the stormkeeper replied. “In a few months, it will be two

  years since she last opened her eyes.”

  “Was anything ever discovered about the . . . incident?”

  “No, my lord,” the stormkeeper replied.

  Elhokar sighed, bowing his head. Finally he stood, looking down at the

  sickly figure. “I have tripled my offerings at the monastery. The monks offer up daily prayers on her behalf, yet the Almighty ignores their cries.” He

  looked up, meeting Jasnah’s eyes. “I am king—should the Almighty not

  heed my will? He mocks me.”

  Jasnah stared back, uncertain how to reply. A part of her was glad that

  Elhokar was so devoted to the traditions of the past—it was good for his

  rule, for the people were more inclined to support a king they thought was

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  pious. Yet, the piece of her that scoffed at superstition—institutionalized or not—wanted to offer what comfort it could. She remained quiet.

  Elhokar looked toward the stormkeeper. “How long?”

  The old man shook his head. “Two years ago, I would have said weeks,

  maybe months. She has lasted years. I cannot say how long the sleepsickness will continue.”

  Elhokar nodded, turning toward the door.

  “My lord,” Nanavah interrupted, drawing his attention. “I apologize if

  this is not the time, but there are matters that should be discussed.”

  Jasnah eyed the red-haired queen.

  “Which matters?” Elhokar asked.

  “It has been two years, my lord,” Nanavah explained. “And it may be

  longer. Surely your distinguished mother would have chosen a husband for

  Lady Jasnah by now.”

  So that was to be the game. Jasnah eyed the queen. The woman had

  made progress indeed.

  Elhokar, ignorant as always to what was left unsaid, turned to regard

  his mother, nodding to himself. “She has a point, Jasnah. Your youth is

  waning. We both know Mother’s patience with you was nearly at an end—if

  she hadn’t fallen sick, she would have chosen a husband for you long ago,

  whether you approved of him or not.”

  “I don’t see what we can do about it,” Jasnah said carefully.

  “I am king,” Elhokar said with a wave of his hand. “We both know very

  well that if you ask, I can declare Mother unfit to choose your spouse.”

  Which would pass the duty of choosing my husband on to my nearest female relative, Jasnah thought, keeping her face calm. And, without any living paternal aunts, that duty would fall on her brother’s wife. Nanavah.

  Despite Balenmar’s warning, Jasnah was surprised at the queen’s subtle

  move. When did this happen? Jasnah wondered. When I left her, Nanavah had little interest in politics beyond the pretty baubles her station provided her.

  “My lord,” Jasnah said, adding a slight edge of emotion to her voice.

  “I would . . . but I think I should wait, just in case. I am not that old yet, and Mother still might awaken. I think patience is best—in the name of

  tradition.”

  Tradition. That was a word that always worked for Elhokar—it made him

  think of their father. Elhokar liked to think that he
was a traditional man.

  “Very well,” the king said. “But not much longer. Come, Nanavah, we

  must prepare for the feast.”

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  The queen shot Jasnah a displeased look as she followed her husband

  from the room. Yes, Jasnah thought, maintaining her calm face, you’ve grown as a politician, my queen, but you’ve only had a short time to learn your husband’s mannerisms. I’ve had a lifetime.

  “You coming, Jasnah?” Elhokar asked.

  “In a short time,” Jasnah said. “I want to spend a little more time with

  her.”

  “Very well,” Elhokar said, leaving.

  Jasnah looked over at the stormkeeper. “Leave us,” she told the scholar.

  The old man looked a bit surprised, but followed the king, closing the door behind him.

  Jasnah stood, grinding her teeth in dissatisfaction as the soldier joined

  her. Nelshenden was head of her personal guard. Tall, proud, and Zirconic, he was everything an Aleth nobleman was supposed to be. If he’d been born

  to a better family, or had the luck of inheriting a Shardblade, he probably would have been quite a force in Aleth politics. Even as it was, half of the court’s women swooned every time he walked by—even if he was too low

  a match for most of them to consider.

  “Anything?” Jasnah asked.

  Nelshenden shook his head. “The six months passed without another

  attempt on her life.”

  Jasnah regarded her mother with dissatisfaction. Six months previously,

  word had reached the army of an apparent attempt on the sick woman’s life.

  Many had dismissed the event, but Jasnah had sent Nelshenden just in case.

  “I looked into the servant who claimed to have interrupted the attempt,”

  the young nobleman said. “He isn’t the most reliable of sources—he fled the city only a few days after the event—but he was known to be a bit smoketongued long before he even began working in the palace.”

  Jasnah nodded distractedly.

  “My lady,” Nelshenden said with a patient voice. “Why would anyone

  try to kill your mother?”

  “I can think of one person,” Jasnah said, eyeing the door.

  Nelshenden paused. “The queen?” he asked with shock.

  “She obviously wants to be rid of me,” Jasnah said. “If Mother died, then

  Nanavah would gain my Right of Decision. It shouldn’t be hard for her

  to find an unattached, unimportant nobleman somewhere with whom to

  imprison me. Once she’s free of me, the winds only know what she’ll do

  with Elhokar.”

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  Nelshenden didn’t respond, and she turned toward him. “You think I’m

  being paranoid, don’t you?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time my lady has . . . overreacted,” he noted.

  Jasnah shook her head, turning back toward her mother. Ezavah had been

  strong once—a fighter. Jasnah knew by first-hand experience; their frequent clashes had been the talk of the feminine political circuits. Yet she missed the woman. Different as they had been, their arguments had provided

  more of a bond than others would understand. The fights had made Jasnah

  strong—made her the woman she had needed to become.

  “Do you hate it that much, then?” Nelshenden asked.

  “Hate what?” Jasnah replied.

  “The idea of marriage.”

  Jasnah paused. He loved her. She had always known that. That was part

  of what made him such a valuable bodyguard. Did she hate marriage? No,

  she did not—but she definitely didn’t want to end up with the man Nanavah

  chose for her.

  “I just want to find out what that woman is up to,” Jasnah said.

  Nelshenden sighed. “Very well. What do you want me to do?”

  She turned toward him—he had sacrificed much. “Nelshenden, I am

  sorry to keep you out of the end of the war.”

  “Honor is not in fighting, my lady,” he said. “Honor is in doing one’s

  duty—and my duty is to you. If my watching your mother brought comfort

  to your mind, then I consider my duty well fulfilled.”

  Jasnah allowed herself a slight smile. She kept Kemnar because of

  his raw effectiveness, but she kept Nelshenden for his honor. He was so

  earnest—yet so young. He would make some woman a fine husband some

  day, and Jasnah intended to make certain he ended up with a woman who

  deserved him. For now, however, she needed him with her. Things were

  happening in the palace, things she was not prepared for. She had left one battle to join another.

  “Take your pick of my guard,” Jasnah said. “Order them to keep very

  careful watch on my mother. You, Kemnar, and I have other work to do.”

  Nelshenden nodded, but he frowned as well.

  “What?” Jasnah asked.

  “She is our queen, my lady. I don’t see that she has done anything worthy of such distrust.”

  Good, trusting Nelshenden—he wouldn’t understand. “It isn’t just the

  queen,” Jasnah said. “There’s something greater going on, something I’m

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  afraid my dissociation from the court has kept me from hearing about. Four days ago, someone tried to assassinate the king.”

  Nelshenden paled. “When? How?”

  “On the battlefield,” Jasnah said. “A Shardbearer with no crest or glyph—

  but with a fully bonded blade—came from behind our lines and attacked

  Elhokar with complete disregard for Protocol.”

  “A curious event, my lady,” Nelshenden said, “but I’m uncertain that

  counts as an assassination attempt.”

  “I’d probably agree,” Jasnah said. “But Balenmar arrived just after the

  attack. I think he knew about it—no, not that he planned it. You noted his departure from Ral Eram, I assume?”

  Nelshenden nodded. “He left about a month ago. He said he had urgent

  news for the king.”

  “He knows something, Nelshenden,” Jasnah said. “And if he discovered

  it from within these walls, then we can find it as well. Until I know what kind of danger my brother is in, I can’t afford to let Nanavah ship me away to some far corner of the kingdom. Does that make sense?”

  Nelshenden nodded.

  “Good,” Jasnah said. “Gather your men and set the guard. These next

  few weeks will be pivotal.”

  chapter 7

  TALN 2

  He arrived with the highstorm.

  The summer storm was furious in its passing, a tempest of wind

  and rain enveloped by a mantle of black clouds. The guards of Ral Eram’s

  massive iron wall huddled in their cloaks, seeking shelter in towers or

  crouched beside wet battlements.

  And when the storm had passed, raging toward the western horizon,

  the guards stood to find a solitary figure standing before the city gates.

  Muscular with dark, tanned skin, he wore only a makeshift loincloth. His

  long, matted hair dripped from the stormwater, and his head was bowed,

  his face hidden, his posture slumped. He seemed almost ready to collapse.

  To his side, he held a bright silvery weapon, point down with the tip

  stuck into the stone, his hand resting on the pommel. The size, sheen, and beauty of the sword made its nature apparent even from the top of the wall.

  A Shardblade.

  The guards regarded their captain questioningly, a couple fingering

  forearms wrapped and tied with cloth glyphwards, sewn by their wives.<
br />
  Men did not travel during highstorms—especially in the summer, when

  stormwights and other creatures were said to roam.

  The guard captain peeked over the side of the wall. The stranger had

  not moved. He stood in a puddle of water, not shivering despite the cool

  mountain breeze. The city gates had been closed for the storm, as per

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  tradition. Tradition also held, however, that no one should be forbidden

  entrance into the city—especially not a nobleman with a Shardblade.

  The captain nodded to the others, who moved to crank the gate open. As

  they did, he ran over to his office and dug out his own glyphward—sewn

  with a glyph he did not recognize, but his wife said stood for ‘holiness.’

  He held up the square of white cloth. He usually avoided appearing

  superstitious before his men.

  He tied it on anyway.

  The walls of Ral Eram no longer shone. Taln frowned, resting his hand

  on Glyphting as the city gates crept open, careful not to push on the sword too hard lest it sink into the stone. His mind was still muddled—his memory was like a lake thick with crom, and many images were still difficult to distinguish. The walls . . . they were steel, crafted from gigantic blocks of stone that had been Remade by Awakeners during the Sixth Epoch. The

  Oathpact Kings kept them polished, a glistening symbol of their bond.

  Yet they shone no more—not like he remembered. They were dull and

  dark. Was it his memory that was wrong? No. No, while many things were

  fuzzy, this was clear. He could picture the walls of the city, picture them shining in the sunlight, just before . . . when? When he had left during the Eighth Return, the last time he had seen them. After that, he had died at

  the Keep of Veletal.

  Perhaps he had failed. Perhaps the city had fallen. How long had it been?

  How long since his death? One century? Two? What would have happened

  to mankind if he had failed?

  What happens to them if I fail . . . ?

  He smelled smoke. The massive wall before him burst into flames, fire

  shining high into the sky like a beacon. He wavered, slumping to his knees.

  He could hear the screaming. Horrible, bestial yells.

  If I fail . . . if I fail . . .

  The flames spread to the stone around him, burning everything, their heat