The door to her room opened, and a white-robed form stepped in. “Lady
Jasnah?” she asked.
Jasnah held up a hand. “Tell Analesh I am nearly finished,” she said.
“My lady?” the attendant asked, confused. “I was sent to bring you to
the royal libraries.”
Jasnah paused, looking up from her ledger, realizing that this scribe
wasn’t the same one who had accompanied Analesh.
“What?” Jasnah asked with a frown.
“The libraries, my lady,” the scribe explained. “There’s been . . . a dis-
turbance.”
The madman looked quite different with a haircut, a shave, and clean
clothing. In fact, much of his wild eccentricity was gone—Jasnah now saw
a man of mundane, if muscular, appearance. He could have been an average
citizen—a military man, or perhaps a smith of some sort. He had a strong
jaw and a handsome profile without being overpoweringly attractive.
The monks had given him a shirt of woven shennah and a pair of loose
trousers, along with a sturdy thick cloak to protect against highstorms. His light hair and rectangular face made it unlikely that he was an Aleth—if
his accent was to believed, he was probably from somewhere to the west.
The area where the Epoch Kingdom of Riemak had once stood was now a
refuge for bandits, tyrants, and mercenaries.
Except for his great height, the man wouldn’t have earned a second look
had she passed him on the street. Unfortunately, he was rather hard to
ignore, sitting as he was in the middle of the royal library, a stack of books on the table in front of him. Female scribes and historians stood nervously at the edges of the room, peeking in at him from other chambers and
half-hiding behind bookshelves. By coming here, the madman had broken
one of the strongest traditions in modern society.
Men were not allowed in libraries.
“Why did you send for me?” Jasnah asked, turning toward the palace
guards who stood just inside the library entrance. Even they were a bit
unnerved by the taboo. Most of the scribes would be unmarried women—
those who had never managed to find a husband, or those who had
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disagreed with the matches their mothers had made for them and asked
for permission to become scribes instead. They now served as writers,
historians, or royal glyphwriters, and the library was their sanctuary.
The guards regarded one another. “We went to the captain,” one of them
explained in a hushed voice, “and he said you’d know what to do with the
madman.”
“You did take responsibility for him, my lady,” Nelshenden reminded her.
Jasnah frowned, glancing at the sheepish, brown-robed monk who stood
beside the guards. He was from Mercyhome—she recognized the glyph.
“The monks of Mercyhome appear to have grown more lax in their duties
since I left for the war.”
“Let me assure you, my lady,” the monk replied. “The monastery is
anything but lax. Most of the monks are quite diligent—I just happen to
be a particularly bad one.”
Jasnah snorted, turning back toward the room. It was dim, each table
lit by a small reading lantern. The white-cloaked women at the edges of
the room were like ghosts—frightened, yet fascinated, by this man who
pretended to be able to read. Apparently, cleaning up his body had not
helped his mind.
“Do you want us to drag him out?” the guard asked.
“Let me speak to him first,” Jasnah decided, walking into the library.
Kemnar and Nelshenden followed closely, their eyes focused carefully on
the madman. No taboo would keep them from protecting her.
Jasnah rounded the madman’s table, studying his face. He seemed intent
on the book in front of him—the Ezorpan of Balen: Shardbearer of Vedenar.
An interesting book, less famous for the man’s life it chronicled but far
more so for the Justification—the commentary Balen’s wife had added
at the bottom of each page.
The madman’s face seemed far more . . . stable than it had before. There
was no fervor in his eyes, no imbalance to his movements. He flipped a
page as he noticed her, then looked back at his book.
Cautious, she seated herself across from him, laying her long-sleeved left arm across her lap and her right arm on the tabletop.
“The Ten Epoch Kingdoms have fallen,” the madman said in his thick
Riemak accent.
“Yes,” Jasnah replied. “About a thousand years ago.”
The madman shook his head. “A thousand years,” he whispered. “There
have been long periods between Returns . . . but a thousand years? Even
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 137
the first one was only eight hundred. Most have only been two or three
centuries, four at the most.”
Jasnah wasn’t certain how to respond. The Epoch Kingdoms had been
gone so long, they were practically myths. Names of what had once
been kingdoms were now used as general references to geography.
The madman looked up at her, closing the book, his face pleasant. “You
are Jasnah Kholin,” he said. “The king’s sister—and you saved my life.”
“Yes,” Jasnah said carefully.
“You think I’m insane,” the madman noted. “I don’t blame you. That is,
after all, why we came up with the Sign—so that we could dispel any doubts.”
“The Sign didn’t work,” Jasnah said.
The madman nodded. “So I noticed. I’m still trying to figure that out.”
Despite his Riemak accent, or maybe because of it, he had a peaceful, quiet voice—very incongruous with the tempestuous way he had burst into the
feast the week before.
The madman glanced down at the book. “I still can’t believe they’re gone.
The book says the Oathpact was broken almost before the Khothen were
defeated. The kings must have been waiting, saving strength to spring on
each other. We should have guessed—I never trusted Vadren, and Ronad
wasn’t very far behind. I never found out what happened, of course—I died
early last time.”
“For a man who’s been gone for a thousand years,” Jasnah said tentatively,
“your accent sounds remarkably like that of a man from Riemak.”
The madman raised an eyebrow. “Is that why everyone keeps saying I’m
from there? I’d wondered.” He turned back from the book. “What I really
want to know, however, is why all of these books are written by women?
And why do they all claim to be biographies of their husbands, when
half of them spend most of their time offering commentary on something
completely different?”
Jasnah froze. “What did you say? ” she asked.
The madman looked up, his eyes innocent. “Take this book, for instance.
It claims to be a history of a man named Balen. There’s only a tiny bit
about him at the top of each page, however. The rest is a rather interesting discussion on what happened at the dawn of the Tenth Epoch.”
Jasnah leaned forward, shooting a glance back at Kemnar and Nelshen-
den. The madman was speaking things that weren’t for masculine ears.
“Who told you that?” she demanded in a hushed tone. “Who read to you
from the Justification?”
; “No one needed to read to me,” the man said with amusement. “I knew
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how to read before this world was founded—though, I’ll admit that I didn’t learn your version of it until the Sixth Epoch.”
“Really?” Jasnah asked skeptically, leaning over and pushing his book
down against the table. “Read that,” she said, pointing at a paragraph.
“‘No one knows what caused The Silence,’” the man said. “‘Or even if
it occurred at all. Some scholars claim that the event never occurred, that Awakening didn’t suddenly disappear—they argue that the Oathshard wars
brought on an era of distrust in mankind, and Awakening fell out of favor
for its mystery. Others attribute the loss of Awakening abilities to a mystical connection to the Oathpact; when one was shattered, the other broke as
well. Regardless of the truth, it is obvious that some powers attributed to the legendary Knights Epellion of the Epoch Kingdom—Windrunning,
Stonewarding, and the others—are no longer available to mankind, even
if Awakening itself eventually returned.’”
Jasnah sat back in her chair, stunned. “Who are you?” she whispered.
“Talenel Elin,” the man said frankly. “Some have called me Stonesinew
the Steadfast, others simply call me The Soldier. Personally, I’ve always
preferred to simply be called Taln.”
“Taln?” Jasnah asked. The word was Palh for rock.
Taln shrugged. “It suits me. Usually, during Returns, I spend my time
hitting things. Ishar and Jezrien are far better at planning than I am—which is why I was hoping they would be here already.”
Jasnah took a deep breath. He certainly wasn’t the first man who had
learned to read—many stormkeepers were thought to have taught them-
selves. However, he was the only one she’d seen admit it openly. “Look . . .
Taln,” she said, leaning forward. “You have to understand. No matter what
you think, no matter what your mind says, you aren’t a Herald. You’re a
man, from Riemak. Were you in a battle? Was your head wounded?”
“The Sign’s failure is a problem, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “I don’t
know, maybe it has something to do with this ‘Silence’ the text mentions.
You really don’t have Knights Epellion any more? This is Alethkar—you
should have Windrunners. The power was tied to the royal family.”
“Windrunners are a myth, Taln,” Jasnah explained. “Please, go back to
Mercyhome. The monks there can help you; they know how to treat people
with your illness.”
Taln smiled. “They want me to go work in the mines.”
“That’s a good job,” Jasnah said. “The King’s Mines offer steady pay, good for a Tenth Citizen. You may be low of rank now, but if you work hard,
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 139
your grandchildren will have Eighth Citizen status. They’ll be full Aleths, just like everyone else.”
“I appreciate the offer,” he said, voice growing solemn. “But I can’t accept it. The Khothen are coming, Lady Jasnah. The creatures known as the
Shadein, or Stormshades. They will come in one year. In the centuries
before the Epoch Kingdoms were founded to unite against them—before
Vorinism was founded to encourage men and teach them to prepare—the
Khothen nearly destroyed mankind on three separate occasions. They won’t
stop until they succeed. This time, they won’t find a united Roshar to fight against them, and they’ve grown craftier over the centuries—come to know
us better. I have to find my brethren. Failing that, I have to find a way to stop the Khothen on my own.”
He leaned forward, looking her in the eye. “I don’t remember much from
the last few days. The first few weeks after a Return begins are . . . difficult.
However, I do know you were responsible for saving my life, and I thank
you—dying now would have been terribly inconvenient. However, I must
ask something else of you.”
Jasnah frowned. “What?”
“I need my sword,” Taln explained. “My Shardblade. It is connected to
those of the other nine Elin—through it, I can feel where my brethren are.
I need you to get it back for me.”
Jasnah shook her head. “That’s not going to happen, Taln.”
“If it doesn’t,” he said, standing, “then I’ll have to find a way to get it back myself. That won’t be pleasant for anyone involved.” He paused, looking
around the room. “I have a feeling I’m not wanted here—it has something
to do with only women being authors these days, I assume?”
“You could say that,” Jasnah replied.
Taln held up Balen’s Ezorpan. “Can I take this? I promise I’ll return it.”
He probably had no idea how much the book was worth. For some
reason, however, Jasnah said yes anyway. “Very well. Just promise not to
return to the library again.”
Taln nodded. “That’s a deal, sister of the king. Think about what I
said—time is short.”
With that, he strode from the room. Jasnah sat back in her chair, sighing
to herself.
chapter 15
JEK 3
Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, did not sneak when he
entered Ahven’s palace. If the Idiot King wanted to hide the fact that
he had a Shin slave, he should have given an order to that effect.
It was as if Jek could feel the blood dripping from his fingers. During
ten years as a Truthless, Jek had rarely been ordered to commit such a
massacre. Talshekh Davar might have been young for a house leader, but
he was extremely fertile. Thirteen children had born his name—six sons,
seven daughters, eight of them beneath the age of the Charan.
Talshekh was a father no more, nor a husband. Jek had done his work
well. He always did. Though he had no will of his own, he bore the
shame and the sin of the murders—that was the conundrum of his pun-
ishment.
Surprisingly, Ahven’s guards let him pass without resistance. He wondered
how the Idiot King had found a way to give them orders without revealing his true nature. The rooms beyond looked different in the daylight—one would
never have been able to tell from the lavish furnishings what little regard the people had for their supposedly imbecilic king. The Veden were fond of symbols that portrayed their martial accomplishment—tapestries bearing
glyphs of heraldry were favored over paintings, and colorful shields hung
from many of the doors. Suits of armor—not Shardplate, but crafted to
imitate it—stood as sentries at corners and in alcoves. Ahven’s audience
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 141
chamber was a grand room with massive, squareish columns, decorated
with shields, spears, and imitation Shardblades. Red and white—the
hereditary symbols of old Vedenar—were the favored colors.
Interestingly, it appeared as if Ahven held court in his chamber, though
the room was very poorly attended. From his previous scoutings, Jek
knew that the king’s whims held very little authority—early in his career, Ahven had signed a document requiring all royal edicts be authorized
by the Puppeteer before becoming law. The Puppeteer, however, needed
no signature from the king to make most proclamations. Considering
such, it was rather amusing that there was anyone in the room besides the
guards.
>
The Idiot King sat on his throne, which was crafted completely from
black steel. In Shinavar, the seat of such an important man would have been lined with gold or silver—a sign of wealth and favor from the Shanalakada.
To the heathens of the east, however, gold had no more value than steel—all metals were the same when one used the sacred arts with such impunity.
The minstrel speaking with Ahven was far more interesting than the
king himself. The minstrel was female of course— eastern noblemen
considered singing a feminine art. Men could sing if they wished, but
only women could do it for an audience. She was of middle age, probably
married to a lesser nobleman who relied on her earnings to support him—a
woman beautiful of voice was often as much in demand among the Kanaran
nobility as one skilled at politics.
“He asked for the Ballad of the Eastern Seas, my lord,” the minstrel
said. She was draped in a very long sencoat, with an enveloping pink shirt underneath—clothing that might have been considered scandalous up
north, in the more prudish kingdoms of Alethkar and Pralir. “Followed by
the Song of Nahket.”
“The Song of Nahket,” Ahven said with a smile. “I like that one.”
“Yes, my lord,” the minstrel said. “Lord Rienat is fond of it as well.”
Jek frowned, standing in the shadows of a column, trying not to touch
any more stone than he had to. What was Ahven’s game? He was deaf—
what knowledge did he have of ballads or songs? Indeed, what need had
he of minstrels? Perhaps it was simply part of his act as a fool. Jek had not discovered the Idiot King’s lack of hearing before attempting the assassination, and Jek liked to think that his information-gathering abilities
were respectable, even though easterners were generally distrustful of his people.
Whatever the reason, the minstrel’s report continued for a time longer.
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Once completed, Ahven nodded for one of his servants to give her a couple
of gemstones and usher her out. Jek watched with interest, trying to catch hints of Ahven’s true intelligence behind the mask. Though Jek had little
respect for eastern heathens in general, this king’s mastery of his own
image was impressive. Everything from his expressions to his slumped,
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 20
