They knew better than to alienate the king’s sister—at least, they knew
better than to do it while that sister was still a potential force in the court.
The news was not explicit—the women had only shared enough to make
it appear that they were helping her. Still, she was able to glean some
information from the pile of letters. Nanavah had taken special care to
befriend and reward Jasnah’s former allies. The queen had set up her own
special dining clubs, and to be invited had become the grandest of courtly honors. What’s more, Nanavah had somehow gained access to the royal
treasury.
The queen wasn’t giving away Elhokar’s money—she was apparently too
savvy for that. However, when a woman allied with Nanavah, the roads
to her husband’s city somehow got repaired more frequently, or patrolled
more extensively. Both encouraged merchants to travel to the city and, more importantly, citizens to move into the city. Everyone knew that the ten-year census was approaching, and with it city ranks would be revised. Those
who ruled well, and whose cities grew, would be rewarded with increased
ranks—and the taxation benefits, political power, and military support that came with them.
While the tactics were as old as female politics, Jasnah was still impressed.
Most women played the game, but few—even those with Nanavah’s
access—did it successfully. Hers would be a difficult hold to break.
One thing, however, confused Jasnah. Emeralds. Several sources men-
tioned Nanavah’s involvement in the emerald trade—they suspected she was
stockpiling them. But why? To drive the price up, then sell? The merchants would never fall for such a ploy. Perhaps she had been trying to gather
more resources in case her husband’s war continued. In the economy of
Awakening, emeralds meant food. Assuming one had talented Awakeners,
the Polestone could be used to create grain.
“My lady?” Shinri asked hesitantly.
Jasnah paused, looking up from the letters.
“Did they say anything about Tethren?”
Jasnah glanced at the letters. She had indeed asked about the man, but
none of the sources had anything to say. “No,” she admitted. “But that
means nothing, Shinri. This court has little heed for the workings of the
Three Houses. You need to ask in Jah Keved.”
Shinri nodded. “Of course. You’re right. Thank you for asking, my lady.
I think that—”
The oak doors at the back of the room burst open, slamming back against
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 87
the walls with a sudden snapping sound. The room fell sharply silent as a
figure strode into the hall.
Jasnah had rarely seen such a wild, unkempt man. His hair was savage
and disheveled, dripping wet from a recent highstorm. His beard was
matted and stained dark with crom. He wore only a tangled loincloth,
apparently crafted with haste from the bark of a shennah plant. He was tall, towering nearly a head over the guards who stood apprehensively behind
him, and his exposed body was lean and muscular.
And he carried a Shardblade.
The people of the room cried out in surprise, several of the men standing, their hands held to the side as they began summoning their Blades. Elhokar slammed his palms on his table, rising with a dark look.
“Who—”
“King of Alethkar!” the wild man barked, speaking in a clipped, rural ac-
cent, similar to that of a man from Riemak to the west. The stranger strode forward, stopping in the middle of the room, amidst the women’s tables.
“I am he,” Elhokar replied.
“I was under the impression that Ral Eram was a city of Ten Kingdoms!”
the wild man announced. “Why is it that I find only one king here, ruling
over the entire city as if its emperor?”
Elhokar flushed. “What is your business here, stranger?”
“I am no stranger,” the wild man said. “I am Talenel Elin, Herald of the
Almighty. I have come to bring warning of the Return, and of the danger
you face—though, from appearances, it seems you are enough of a danger to
yourselves. Is it true that you are recently returned from an invasion of
Prallah, your once ally against the tide of the Khothen?”
“Bah!” Elhokar said, looking at the guards. “Why in the blessed name
of the Almighty would you let this fool interrupt my feasting?”
“Your men did as your own ancestors required,” the wild man said,
holding forth his Shardblade, causing several of the women to shy away in
fear. “They acted by laws preserved in your ballads, laws I helped establish so that the proper proof could be provided. Behold!” the man said, thrusting forth his hand in a dramatic gesture. “Witness the Sign of the Return!”
Nothing happened.
The room sat in silence, regarding the strange man. The would-be-Elin
looked down at his hand with concern, then thrust it forward again. Again, nothing happened. Suddenly, the man wavered, looking disoriented, his
eyes unfocused, his hand going to his head. At that exact moment, eight
guards tackled him from behind.
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Women cried out and men ducked as the soldiers brought the strange
man to the ground. Two of them focused only on the madman’s arm,
mindful of the Shardblade and its supernaturally-sharp edge. The guards
and he fell in a heap, pinning the madman to the ground.
Lords jumped from their seats, joining the group of guards who struggled
to control the man. Whoever he was, he must have been incredibly strong,
for he nearly rose to his feet with six men holding him down. Finally, he
seemed to lose his resolve, and he slumped to the floor, allowing himself to be held motionless.
Assured they were in control, the soldiers carefully pulled the madman
to his feet, six of them holding him tightly, another four standing with
drawn swords. One grabbed the madman’s Shardblade and ran it forward
to Elhokar’s table.
“Captain,” Elhokar said, face bright with anger, “your incompetence has
embarrassed me at my own homecoming feast!”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” the lead guard said. “But, he had a Blade, and . . .
well, the ballads do say we have to allow anyone to perform the Sign . . .”
“Not in the middle of a feast, you fool!” Elhokar snapped. “Take him
from here and have him executed.”
“Executed?” the captain asked.
“He’s so fond of the Law of the Sign,” Elhokar said, waving toward the
man, “let him suffer the punishment for it. I know the ballads too, and I
saw no sign of his divinity.”
“My lord . . .” the captain said. “He obviously has no wit to—”
“Do not question your king!” Elhokar screamed.
The captain bowed, flushing at the command. Jasnah eyed the poor
wildman, pity stirring within her. He stood slumped in the guards’ grasp,
his head down, and he seemed to be whispering something to himself. This
was not Shinavar—the people of Alethkar expected civility and honor
from their rulers. Executing madmen simply for being insane was an act
of barbarity.
Perhaps this man’s cause could serve her as well. It was a risk, but . . .
Jasnah stood, drawing the room’s attention. “My lord, I ask mercy.”
�
�On what grounds?” Elhokar spat, sitting.
“He carried a Shardblade,” Jasnah pointed out. “That makes him a
nobleman.”
“Or the murderer of a nobleman,” Elhokar replied.
“We don’t know that, my lord,” Jasnah said.
“I am not in a mood for argument, Jasnah,” Elhokar said. “Do not rouse
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 89
my anger further. This man has interrupted my feast and threatened me
before my court.”
Jasnah dropped to the ground and bowed her head to the marble floor.
“Please, my lord,” she pled. “Take his Blade, add it to the pile of those to be won at the competition, and spare this man his life. You have shown the world your honor already. Now show them your mercy.”
Elhokar paused, regarding his sister. “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “If you wish to take responsibility for him, Sister, then he is yours. Just take him from my sight.”
Jasnah rose, waving Kemnar over from the side of the room, where he
stood with the other personal guards. “Take him to Mercyhome monastery
and put him under the care of the monks there,” she said quietly. “Make
certain he’s clothed and bathed, and give them a few gems as payment.”
“And if he gives me trouble?” Kemnar asked, eyeing the stranger. The
man had yet to look up from his mumblings.
“He seems to have lost his spirit,” she said, “and he no longer has a Blade.
He shouldn’t be any trouble for you.”
“I didn’t imply that he would,” Kemnar replied.
“The monks will know what to do with him,” she said. “You can leave a
few guards with them if it looks like he might act up again.”
Kemnar nodded, waving for a few of the palace guardsmen to join him
in leading the madman away. Jasnah moved back to her seat, brushing off
her talla and seating herself again. The men of the court turned back to their meals, their laughter forced as they intentionally tried to forget the incident.
The women, however, watched Jasnah. She had shown them something,
something that they would not quickly forget. She still had power over her brother, power to save a man’s life even when the king’s infamous temper
had been stoked.
Jasnah met the queen’s eyes through the crowd. The woman’s mouth was
a line of displeasure—calling for mercy should have been her place, but
she had not acted. Jasnah had, and the king had listened to her. It set an uncomfortable precedent.
Jasnah turned away from the woman, lightly picking up her brushpen and
scribing thankful replies to those women who had answered her questions.
chapter 10
JEK 2
Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, knelt in the darkness and
laid a quiet hand on the granite, mouthing the fourteen curses against a
people who forced him to desecrate holy stone.
Yet there was no other way. It shamed him, but he barely even noticed
any more. When he had first come to the lands of the east, he had tried
to find ways to keep from walking on the stone. He would stand on rugs
and ride in hand-drawn carriages. Eventually, he had been forced to admit
his hypocrisy. Beneath the rug was stone. Beneath that stone, more stone.
Wherever he walked, whether it be inside or outdoors, his feet desecrated
the rock. There was no regular soil in this blighted land.
Jek stood. The night was cool, yet still arid. He longed for the enfolding humidity of his homeland. That was not to be, however. He was Truthless—his lot was to walk the stones, knowing every step brought him
damnation. And so it would be.
He scuttled along the palace wall in the darkness. Though heathens, the
eastern people did have some impressive attributes. Their skill with textiles and dyes far outmatched that of his own people. The seasilk bodycloth he
wore was stronger, yet lighter and more flexible, than any wool outfit from Shinavar. It was colored the deepest of blacks, its natural sheen roughed
to prevent it from glistening in the starlight. Were he still a member of the Halantentan, the clothing would have been the envy of the entire clan.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 91
He paused beside a stone post on the wall, crouching down, eyeing pal-
ace guards and their lanterns. The heathens liked to build outward, rather than upward. In Shinavar, the palace of one so wealthy would have been a
tenset stories in height, constructed to show the power of the clan leader.
However, stone was not meant to be used for building homes—it resisted
cutting and smoothing, wishing to remain in its natural form. It was too
heavy for much stacking. The difficulty didn’t permit the construction
of tall buildings—massive support pillars were needed to achieve even a
single story.
The Veden palace was of typical design. It spread out across a shallow
stone plateau at the center of Veden City. Built of five wings, it was a
labyrinth of hallways and chambers. During the party he had attended
earlier, Jek had spent as much time as possible scouting his pathways.
Complex though the palace was, it betrayed one major flaw—consistent
with most of its kind in the east.
Important men liked windows.
Jek climbed over the side of the wall, slinking down its side, using the
two sides of a corner to keep himself from fal ing too fast. He crouched at its base, then scuttled across the courtyard. A quick grapple with handholds,
and he was up once again—this time on the roof of the palace. The stone
was unnaturally flat beneath his unshod feet, worked and scarred by the
hands of men. He stole across the top of the building, aiming toward
the back wall.
The heathens were fools. Their nobles always slept in the same room,
and didn’t even try to disguise which room that was. Look for the largest, best-protected room in the building, and one would find the lord of the
household. It was fortunate that the heathen eastern assassins were as in-
competent as their lords; otherwise, the land would have been depopulated
of noblemen long before.
Two guards stood on the outside balcony, their lanternlight blinding
them to the darkness. Even if they had been without light, they probably
wouldn’t have thought to look upward—even though that was the most
obvious path to the king’s chambers.
Jek shook his head. Sixteen years, and he had yet to find a true challenge in these lands. He wondered if the heathens even realized how fortunate
they were—if they’d been more civilized, the clans would have attacked
them long ago. As it was, however, Truth forbade the attacking of children, women, and non-warriors. By common Shin consent, all easterners fell into
the first category.
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That prohibition, unfortunately, no longer applied to Jek. He was Truthless.
The first guard died with Jek’s stiletto in his back. The second guard
turned with a look of shock, opening his mouth to scream as his companion
slumped to the ground. Jek leaped forward, grabbing the soldier by the
neck, cutting off his cry of surprise. Jek whipped out his chokecloth,
spinning behind the man and wrapping the cloth around his neck. The
guard got in a single claw at Jek’s arm before a twist of the chokecloth sent him to join his companion.
Jek rested the body quietly against the stone landing. He felt sligh
tly
less guilty about killing them than he did others. The soldiers carried
swords—they were noblemen of the Vedenel house, self-professed warriors.
According to Truth, any man who wished to be a warrior could die like
one, should he make that choice.
The door was wooden—created, undoubtedly, through heathen misuse
of sacred arts, for there were no trees in the east to provide wood. The keys were on one of the guard’s belt. Jek used them in the lock, opened the door, and crept inside.
It was darker within than without. Jek moved through the room, quickly
making out the black blot of the bed against the far wall. There, only for a moment, did he give himself pause. During his years in exile, he had been
forced to kill non-warriors of all types—women, children, craftsmen, and
servants. Yet, he had never performed this one heresy: the murder of one
whose mind had been taken by the Shanalakada. The Idiot King was more
than just a child, he was a child with no opportunity. An invalid.
The bitter taste in Jek’s mouth was nothing new. This is your punishment, he thought, forcing himself forward. This is your shame. You have no Truth remaining.
He stopped before the bed to perform the deed—only to find it empty.
Immediately, his senses became alert. Instincts trained through hours of
practice beneath his father’s tutelage took control of Jek. He spun, rolling across the ground to avoid attack, and scrambled for the door. As he reached it, a voice whispered in the darkness.
“If you leave, you will just have to return to try again.”
Jek froze, crouching beside the wall, seeking the concealment of
darkness and searching for the one who had spoken. The voice had been
familiar—the words misformed and dull.
On the other side of the room, a light flashed—the hood being removed
from a lantern. The soft glow revealed the Idiot King seated at a table.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 93
He wore a loose sencoat of dark materials and a pair of easterner pants—
very wide at the cuff and baggy through the legs.
“You have come to kill me,” King Ahven said. “It is curious that you
would run so easily. What of the precise efficiency I have heard regarding Shin assassins?”
A trap? It was a strange one, then. No guards, no bows. Just a simpleton
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 13
