Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

  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

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  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