“Good. Now watch.” Vasher turned, falling into a stance and raising his
sword. He stood there for a moment, then turned expectant eyes on Merin.
Merin quickly mimicked Vasher’s stance. The monk walked over to him,
nudging Merin’s foot forward a few inches, correcting his posture, and
showing him how to grip the arrow.
“Good,” Vasher said. “How high can you count?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” Merin confessed, holding still in the stance. “As high as I want, I suppose.”
“Good,” Vasher said, turning and walking back toward his dueling
partner. “Hold that stance for a thousand heartbeats. When you’re done,
let me know, and we’ll do another.”
Merin frowned, but the monk said nothing further. A bead of sweat
rolled down Merin’s cheek in the sunlight. What have I gotten myself into?
he wondered, sighing internally.
chapter 13
TALN 3
Taln awoke from a dream of agony and screams. Two things occurred
to him immediately—first, as an Elin, he should not need to sleep.
Second, as an Elin, he definitely shouldn’t dream.
He frowned, sitting up. The last few days were a blur in his mind. He
had come to Ral Eram. He remembered his arrival, and his . . . bursting
in on some sort of feast or party. Beyond that . . .
The Sign hadn’t worked. Taln hissed in surprise, thrusting forward his
hand, trying to manifest the nahel bond within him. Nothing happened.
What of his other powers?
He analyzed his surroundings with a quick glance. He was in a long,
rectangular chamber set with beds along both walls. The room was set with
stone pillars, and the windows were shaped with triangular peaks. In fact, the architecture held a great number of angles and lines—he was probably
in the Aleth section of the city?
Many of the beds were occupied with the lame and the sick, and the men
tending them wore undyed tan robes, sewn with the glyph ila—the mark of the priesthood. There were two doors leading out of the room, and
the windows provided an alternative exit—they looked wide enough to
be broken with relative ease. A table would probably do it.
There was a small chest beside his bed—a chest with amber knobs. He
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reached out, blessing his fortune. He had the Sourcestone of Stonewarding.
He touched the amber, seeking to draw upon its power.
Again, nothing happened. Taln withdrew his fingers, frowning. Some-
thing was very, very wrong.
Why won’t my Stonewarding work? he thought with frustration. And the Sign. I need information.
He looked up, scanning the room again. His mind was far less fuzzy than
it had been—images, places, and thoughts were all becoming more clear.
There were only two monasteries in the Aleth section of Ral Eram—unless
new ones had been constructed—Lighthome and Mercyhome, of which
Lighthome was a female monastery.
One of the attendants noticed that Taln was awake, and the man waved
over an older monk. The elderly man regarded Taln with a displeased
expression, whispering to his companion in a voice most men probably
wouldn’t have been able to hear. Taln was not most men.
“Where is Brother Lhan?” the elder monk hissed. “He should be here!”
“I’ll fetch him, Telilah,” the younger monk promised, bowing his head in deference, then rushing off.
The older man cleared his face of displeasure, smiling reassuringly
toward Taln. He had a large nose and grizzled features, and his hands were callused. “I see you finally awoke from your slumber, traveler.”
“Yes, holy one,” Taln replied, still bothered by the fact that he had fallen asleep in the first place. “Thank you for caring for me.” Taln flexed his arm, testing his muscles against their extended immobility. “It seems I’ve been a bit out of sorts these last few days. How long was I . . . asleep?”
“Four days, off and on,” the senior monk explained. “You were awake for
much of the time, but you seemed unable to focus.”
Four days. . . . Taln shook his head. Yet, he could feel the weakness of his mind, the whispers at the edge of his sanity. It was getting worse each Return. Perhaps that was the reason for his apparent slumber.
“I must say, traveler,” the kindly monk said. “You seem far more . . . lucid now than when they first brought you.”
“I feel far more lucid, holy one,” Taln said with a smile. He raised his
sheet slightly, noticing that he was still naked. Hopefully, the monks would loan him some clothing—though he doubted anyone was going to give him
a weapon any time soon.
“Tell me, traveler,” the senior monk said uncertainly. “What do you . . .
remember of yourself?”
Taln raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I still think that I’m a Herald?”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 123
“In not so many words,” the monk replied.
“My problems of the last few days were not related to my identity, holy
one,” Taln said. “I am an Elin. I will not lie to you; that would do us both a disservice.”
“I see,” the monk said, his disappointment apparent.
“However,” Taln continued. “I don’t expect you to believe me. The Sign
did, after all, fail—I’ll have to solve that problem before I can move onto other items. For now, let it suffice to say that I was a traveler in need of your assistance, and you provided it. The Almighty bless you for that.”
The monk smiled, glancing to the side as another brown-robed form,
looking a bit disheveled, entered from the north hallway.
“You are welcome to stay with us as long as you need, friend,” the elderly monk said, gesturing toward the newcomer. “Brother Lhan has been
assigned to care for you. He will travel with you, and make certain you are aquatinted with the city.”
In other words, he’ll make certain I don’t get into trouble, Taln thought, smiling and nodding his head as the elder monk backed away to care for
other patients.
Taln was pleased to note that Brother Lhan was carrying a folded pile
of clothing with him. Lhan was a younger man—probably in his early
twenties—a bit on the pudgy side, with an unconcerned oval of a face. Lhan blinked tiredly as he approached, and his left cheek was still imprinted with the lines of whatever he had been lying on when they woke him.
Lhan yawned as he pul ed a stool up beside Taln’s bed, resting the clothing on the floor beside him. “Greetings, traveler. Welcome to the glorious
Mercyhome monastery.”
“Thank you,” Taln said, reaching immediately for the clothing. “I assume
these are for me?”
Lhan nodded, yawning again.
“I’m sorry they woke you,” Taln noted, picking through the clothing.
Lhan shrugged. “It’s my own fault—I’ve really got to find a better place
to hide.”
Taln raised an eyebrow at the comment as he examined the clothing.
The cut was unfamiliar to him, though fashion changes between Returns
were normal. The trousers were very loose through the legs, and ended in
wide triangular cuffs about halfway down the calf. The shirt was equally
loose, probably intended to be worn tucked into the pants, then tied with
the sash. There were undergarments as well.
The most important article, however, was the thick brown cloak—a piece
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DERS ON
of Rosharan fashion that would never change. Cloaks were necessary even
in the summer to ward off highstorm rains. All of the clothing had been
crafted from shennah, a plant whose bark was stringy and fluffy enough to be spun. It made for rough fabric; fortunately, all but the cloak had been treated in such a way to make them softer to the touch. Taln nodded in
satisfaction—he would have preferred seasilk, of course. The material was
lighter, stronger, and more comfortable. These, however, were a citizen’s
clothing. He could have hoped for nothing more.
“Brother Lhan,” Taln said. “Please run and fetch me some thread and
a needle.”
“Excuse me?” the monk asked.
“You and I are in a forced relationship,” Taln said. “Your superiors
obviously expect you to keep me from causing any serious trouble. If you
want my cooperation in this, you are going to need to make yourself useful.”
Lhan raised an eyebrow. “How very . . . economical of you.”
Taln sighed, regarding the man. “I’m not trying to be difficult, Lhan;
I’m just trying to save the world. A needle and some thread would be very
helpful.”
Lhan rolled his eyes, rising from his stool. “All right.”
“Oh, and bring me four medium-sized rocks,” Taln added, rising and
beginning to dress. “About half the size of your fist.”
“Rocks?” Lhan asked skeptically.
“Yes, rocks,” Taln replied. “This is Roshar. The last time I checked—
which, admittedly, was several centuries ago—they were fairly prevalent
here.”
“Rocks,” Lhan mumbled again as he walked off.
Taln was dressed by the time Lhan returned. Taln accepted the thread,
needle, and rocks from the monk, then proceeded to begin sewing a
flap into the hem of his cloak. The monk sat down, regarding Taln with
curiosity.
“The second thing I’m going to need from you, Brother Lhan, is infor-
mation,” Taln said, pulling the thread tight.
“Ask away.”
“What year is it?”
“10e980,” Lhan replied.
Taln paused, needle held halfway through a stitch. “980? ” he asked.
“Indeed,” the monk replied. “Not that I’ve seen daylight for the last ten
years or so, but at least they tell me that’s what the year is.”
980. Nearly a thousand years since the Ninth Epoch, since the last
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Return. Such a long time—something must have happened to the Khothen.
They had never waited that long between Returns before. “What happened
to the Epoch Kingdoms?” Taln asked, turning back to his sewing.
Lhan didn’t respond immediately. “You’re kidding, right?” he eventually
asked.
“Pretend I’m not,” Taln said without looking up.
“They fell,” the monk explained. “Right after the beginning of the Tenth
Epoch.”
Taln closed his eyes, sighing to himself. He’d hoped it wasn’t true,
but . . .” What about Alethkar?” he said, opening his eyes. “It obviously
still exists.”
“Well, a lot of the Epoch Kingdoms exist in name,” Lhan explained.
“It’s always a good idea to use one of the old names when you found a
kingdom—it makes you seem more legitimate.”
“Which ones still stand, then?” Taln asked. “Even if only in name.”
“Alethkar, of course,” the monk said. “Though, as the king told you,
we’ve expanded a bit over the last few years. Thalenah still stands—it’s by itself on that island over there, so its borders stay pretty stable. Vedenar is now called Jah Keved, though it’s ruled by three Veden Houses with a
figurehead as their leader.”
Taln frowned. “That’s it?”
“Well, Shinavar is still there,” Lhan said. “No one ever really pays much
attention to the clansmen. The land that used to be Lakhenran is ruled by
Jah Keved, as it has been off and on for the last few centuries. Prallah’s a mixture of a tenset different kingdoms—our king just captured the largest
one, as you’ve probably heard.”
“Riemak, Bethram, Inava?”
“Gone,” the monk said. “Kingdoms sometimes try to claim them, but
mostly they’re uninhabited—except Riemak. There are enough bandits over
there to form their own kingdom.”
Taln nodded. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been—Bethram was the
smallest of the kingdoms, and would be missed only briefly. Riemak’s
disappearance would be a strong blow—the Holy City at its center had been
a powerful center of morale during times of battle. However, Alethkar,
Vedenar, and Thalenah had always been the most populous—and power-
ful—of the ten.
“Vorinism is still strong, I assume,” Taln noted, reaching for the rocks
Lhan had brought him.
“And always will be, Almighty wil ing,” Lhan said in a dutiful monotone,
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his piousness weakened slightly by the extended yawn in the middle of the
sentence.
“If the Vorin religion is still in power,” Taln said with a frown, “how is it that no one takes my claim to be a Herald seriously? Have you forgotten about the cycle of Returns, the coming of the Khothen? The religion was
founded to prepare for such things.”
“Well,” Lhan said, “we’ve kind of had to change our focus during the
last epoch. You did, after all, promise that you weren’t going to come back any more.”
Taln froze, glancing up. “What?”
“At the end of the Last Return,” Lhan explained. “The Elin disappeared
and said they wouldn’t be coming back, that the cycle of Returns was
through, and the Khothen had been defeated.”
“That’s not possible,” Taln said.
Lhan raised an eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t be here if the cycle of Returns were over,” Taln explained.
“Trust me. Which of the Elin proclaimed this?”
“Well, I’m not really sure,” Lhan said. “It didn’t become official Vorin
doctrine until around the fifth century, I think.”
“Why so long?”
Lhan shrugged. “You’re kind of asking the wrong monk—actually, the
wrong monastery. The Order of Ishar contains all the history experts. This all happened a thousand years ago, after all.”
“But it’s your theological heritage,” Taln said, finishing his stitching.
“So the senior monks are fond of telling me.”
Taln stood, putting on the cloak.
“You sewed rocks into your hem,” Lhan noted. “How very . . . odd of you.”
Taln spun, turning a few times to judge the motion of the cloak. Then
he turned to the side in a quick motion, pulling the garment off with a
smooth gesture. He nodded to himself, putting it back on.
“For weight,” Taln explained. “A weighted cloak is easier to position in
a battle, and easier to remove quickly.” He could also use it as a surprise weapon, though he didn’t offer that bit of explanation.
“Oh,” Lhan said.
“What did you think I was doing?” Taln asked with amusement, sitting
down on the bed and removing the cloak.
“I wasn’t sure,” Lhan replied. “I just figured you were confused. You are, after all, crazy.”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 127
<
br /> Taln raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a very subtle one, are you, Brother
Lhan?”
“I make up for it in sheer laziness,” Lhan replied. “What are you doing
now?”
“Pockets,” Taln said, setting out the cloak again. “Do you mind if I cut
up this blanket?”
Lhan shrugged. “That’s the kind of thing we expect crazy people to do
anyway. You’ll have to tear it, though. I’m certainly not going to give you a knife.”
Taln frowned, but did as requested. “You seem surprisingly flippant with
regard to my supposed lunacy. Aren’t you afraid I’ll become violent?”
“You’re not a violent one,” Lhan said. “I’ve seen a lot of your type come
through the monastery. I also know you can’t be talked out of who you
think you are. My job is simply to make certain you don’t accidentally hurt yourself or anyone else—especially not myself.”
“You have experience with ‘my type,’ then?” Taln asked, sewing a large
pocket into the cloak’s inner right side.
“I tend to get all of the more . . . undesirable assignments.”
“I wonder why,” Taln mumbled. He fell silent as he worked, turning
his thoughts to a topic he had been avoiding. What was he going to do?
Normally, he would let the other Elin decide the plan, but he appeared to
be the only one to have reached Ral Eram. He needed to find the others,
and that required one thing: his sword.
It had been taken from him . . . he remembered that night at the feast
only vaguely. “My sword . . .” he said.
“It was confiscated,” Lhan said. “You didn’t exactly make a good impres-
sion on the king. Enduring, perhaps, but definitely not good.”
“There was . . . a woman,” Taln said thoughtfully. “She saved my life.”
“Lady Jasnah,” Lhan agreed. “The king’s sister. Don’t assume she protected you out of fondness. Lady Jasnah is about as compassionate as a sleeping
chull. Even her breathing is politically motivated. No one’s certain why she pled for you, but most think it was some kind of stunt.”
“Either way, I owe her my life,” Taln said. The loss of his weapon was
troubling. With Glyphting, he could sense the locations of the other Elin.
It would be the easiest and fastest way to find them.
Assuming, of course, he thought, that the Blade’s powers still work.
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 18
