Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

  Suddenly, Shinri felt a sharp blush of embarrassment. She was not so

  clever as she had thought. She had assumed that lady Shendaran, Tethren’s

  sister, was simply her political inferior. Shinri had seen through the letter so easily, noticing its flaws and hidden content, all the while congratulating herself on her superior political savvy—and al the while being manipulated to do just that.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 193

  Shendaran had expected her to dig. She had prepared for Shinri’s sus-

  picion, and had known that Shinri was unlikely to accept any explanation

  from House Rienar. This, the story about the Awakener—this was the true

  feint. This was the story spread unofficially, the patch used to underlay an obviously suspicious event. It was a very Veden scandal—Shinri’s people

  loved stories of poetic destruction via Awakening or Stormshade. They

  would quickly accept the second lie for its shameful and supernatural

  implications, especially if House Rienar was smart enough to deny it as

  much as possible.

  But it was a lie. Shendaran didn’t know two things. Shinri had known

  Tethren a relatively short time, but she had studied him with the obsessive eyes of a lovestruck girl. She knew far more of him than she was expected to.

  Secondly, Shinri was no longer really a Veden. She had spent too much

  time in Alethkar—and with the supremely Aleth Jasnah—to retain many of

  her superstitions. She didn’t accept the Awakener story because of its il ogic.

  And that, unfortunately, left her where she had begun—save for one bit

  of information. She now understood that she wouldn’t find her answers

  in Jah Keved. The Veden people couldn’t be honest with her even if they

  wished to—the lies had grown too convoluted.

  But what else is there? She thought. If I can’t get the truth from them, then how do I discover it?

  What would Jasnah do? The answer came to her immediately. Since

  Shinri couldn’t find the answer at the source of Tethren’s voyage, she would have to go to his destination. King Amelin probably didn’t remember

  Shinri—and she doubted she wanted him to, for she hadn’t exactly treated

  him with the dignity deserving of his station. However, Thalenah had dock

  registers and cargomasters. Perhaps she could borrow Kemnar for a short

  time and have him seek out the truth behind that convoy’s cargo.

  Determined, Shinri left the mansion and ordered her litter bearers to

  carry her to Veden City’s Oathgate Dome. Like the others, it was structured like a reverse fortress, designed to protect against the unlikely event of unwanted travelers coming through.

  There was no line—it was late in the day, and the Oathgates were closed

  to all but the most important of travelers. Her bearers put down the litter, and she swept into the building, intent on returning to Jasnah with her

  news of Veden politics. The guards waved her inside, into the circular room lined with glistening quartz and bright diamonds. The Oathgate itself was

  a twisting structure of pure quartz, designed like a natural arch of stone blown into formation by the winds.

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  And it was already open. Shinri paused—she had expected that she

  would need to demand the services of the young Awakener kept on prem-

  ises to open their side and send a message through the opal requesting that the other side be opened as well. However, it appeared as if another traveler had already demanded its opening. As she watched, the white-smoke veil

  in the arch’s center broke, and a man stepped through.

  Round-faced, with the large, almost child-like eyes of his kind, the Shin

  man moved with more grace than the smoke itself. He crept more than

  walked, his step almost a glide. Shinri stepped back, staring despite herself as the man strode by. He glanced at Shinri with eyes that read her as

  easily as they read a common glyph, and understood her with an ease that

  would have shamed even Jasnah’s skill.

  He was out the door seconds later, passing her without acknowledgement

  or respect for her station, leaving her to wonder how a foreign man could

  demand such free use of the Oathgates.

  chapter 20

  JEK 4

  Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, occasionally found some

  things challenging about living among the eastern heathens. Their

  warriors were incompetent, true, but the Kanaran people had advantages

  that were not related to their skill. Jek was undeniably Shin—his skin was lighter and smoother than that of a Kanaran, his features more rounded,

  his nose far less predominant. Many Kanarans claimed that the Shin looked

  like children to their eyes—an irony, since the easterners themselves were considered children by the Truth.

  Regardless, Jek could not easily hide among them. Even with skin dark-

  ened by makeup, his features would mark him as a outsider—a Riemak

  mixedbreed, if not a full Shin. Moving among the Kanarans unnoticed

  required skill and care. Fortunately, such was included in his training—his clan might not have been one of the most overtly powerful, but no Shin

  would dare question their effectiveness.

  Karathach the Lord Puppeteer did not ‘hold court,’ for technically he was

  not king. Gaining private audiences with him was surprisingly difficult. He considered himself careful, but in truth he was simply pompous. He did

  not wish to be bothered by those he considered his inferiors.

  Fortunately, he was growing desperate.

  Jek stood quietly at the back of the small stone room, trying to ignore the sense of the stone pressing in on him. The Puppeteer’s audience chamber

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  was lavish with the goods of his plunder—seasilk, woven rugs, and woods

  of all variety crowded the room’s occupants. Of men, there were about ten, including the Puppeteer himself.

  The Puppeteer’s eye sockets seemed to droop in his head, his entire

  face gaunt and worried as he paced. “Naden!” he snapped. “What of your

  contacts to the south? Surely Lord Reinar realizes the danger of one House rising against another?”

  One of the Puppeteer’s rich-clothed attendants shrugged helplessly. “He

  cannot fight Talshekh, not with the might of his armies gathered like they are. House Davar is too powerful.”

  “Bah!” the Puppeteer said, waving his hand. “I need answers, not excuses!

  How many of them are there?”

  “The scouts count over twenty thousand, your excel ency,” one of the men

  offered. “Though his numbers swell daily.”

  “Perhaps we can bribe him,” a third man suggested. “Make peace? A

  treaty?”

  “He thinks I assassinated his family, you idiot!” the Puppeteer snapped.

  The men in the room glanced at each other nervously. It was commonly

  held in the city that the Puppeteer had indeed been behind the slaughter

  of the Davar family, though the thoroughness of that belief could only have been created by Ahven’s rumor-spreaders.

  During his weeks in Ahven’s company, Jek had come to realize that

  Jek himself was not the only efficient man who quietly served the Idiot

  King. There was a very soft, very exclusive underground in Veden City—an

  underground that understood that the Puppeteer’s power was fleeting. A

  group that served Ahven, as Jek did.

  “I didn’t kill them!” the Puppeteer insisted to his supporters, who looked unconvinced. A
pparently, the Puppeteer had often expressed his dissatisfaction with House Davar.

  Jek shook his head. Among a land of heathens, there were many who

  were nonetheless competent. The Lord Puppeteer was not one of them. The

  men in this room should have been his most avid supporters. If he had such little ability to persuade them, then . . .

  It didn’t really matter. Veden City was doomed. Twenty thousand men

  camped just outside its walls. The Puppeteer had barely eight thousand at his disposal. That was enough to give the invader pause before attacking the city, but it wouldn’t stop him for long. Talshekh’s numbers were growing every day.

  In addition, it appeared that the Lord Puppeteer would receive no aid.

  Whether by his own incompetence or by Ahven’s secret maneuverings, he

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 197

  had been left without allies. Once news of the Davar invasion had arrived, assumedly firm allegiances had suddenly withdrawn. Troops had failed

  to rally to the capital, and support had evaporated. While House Vedenel

  supposedly control ed a third of the country of Jah Keved, news of Talshekh’s invasion had isolated the House to a single city. Landlocked, with mountains at its back, there would be no escaping the trap. The Puppeteer had

  sat, firm in his belief that support would arrive, until it had been too late.

  This man was doomed. That was not a question. The true puzzle was,

  why had Ahven instigated it? The second thing the invading Talshekh

  would do—right after killing the Puppeteer—would be to execute Ahven.

  Vedens were not like the Aleths to the north—there would be no subtlety

  in this seizure. Talshekh was marching on the capital. He would see himself named king. Ahven would die with the man he had trapped.

  “You!” the Puppeteer said, pointing at Jek. “Shin! What of those men

  you promised me?”

  “They come,” Jek lied, speaking a broken dialect of Veden. “My entire

  clan.”

  The Puppeteer closed his eyes, exhaling in relief. Even those who had

  never seen a Shin fight knew that their abilities could not be matched by

  anything in Kanar.

  “When will they arrive?” the Puppeteer asked.

  “Soon,” Jek said.

  “You promised five thousand,” the Puppeteer said eagerly. “Five thousand

  Shin swords.”

  “Yes,” Jek said. “My people, fine craftsmen.”

  The Puppeteer froze. “Fine . . . craftsmen?”

  “Yes,” Jek said. “They make swords. Bring swords to his Excellency. His

  Excellency’s soldiers, well weaponed.”

  The Puppeteer’s eyes bulged. “Craftsmen!” he yelled. “You bring me five

  thousand craftsmen!”

  “No,” Jek said, cocking his head. “Five thousand swords. His Excellency

  asked for swords. We bring, and sell swords.”

  “Sell . . .” the Puppeteer looked dazed. Then, his rage returned. “Out!”

  he screamed, pointing.

  Jek adopted a look of confusion and scurried from the room in compliance.

  Ahven was not in his rooms. Jek did not have to search long to find him,

  however. The guards directed him to the Veden City walls, where the Idiot

  King stood looking out over the Davar army. The troops were scattered

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  across the bare stones, the colors of their tents marking the presence of

  tensets of lesser houses. Davar had gained allies quickly. In this heathen land, loyalty often meant only as much as the strength of one’s armies.

  The invaders had brought with them a tenset of the large towers the

  Kanarans used in battle, but they would probably not be needed. City walls were almost a formality in this land—instead of providing fortifications,

  they often simply hampered one’s Shardbearers. With a wel -executed strike against the city gate, Talshekh’s own Shardbearers would quickly slice their way through the wood. Even without Blades, the heathens’ profane use of

  the sacred arts could change the gate—or even the walls—into water or air

  to allow passage. In Kanar, sieges did not last very long.

  “You have returned early,” Ahven noted as Jek approached. The king was

  alone; his guards stood a short distance away, well out of earshot. Jek had determined that some of them knew of their king’s charade, but others

  obviously did not. For a man whose manipulations were so varied, Ahven

  did an amazing job of keeping his secrets.

  “I was forced to reveal that I was bringing no troops,” Jek said. “And the Puppeteer threw me out.”

  Ahven frowned. “You played your hand early.”

  Jek shrugged. “There is no further reason to watch the man. He is a fool,

  and his fate is inevitable.”

  Ahven smiled. “You acted impetuously,” he said. “Perhaps my steward is

  doomed, perhaps he is not. After all, you think that I am doomed as well.”

  Jek froze. How had he . . .

  Ahven’s smile deepened. “Tell me of the meeting,” he said, watching

  Jek’s face carefully.

  “The Puppeteer was looking for options,” he said. “He kept asking

  members of the group if they could help, even though they had already said they could not. One of the members often pointed out how many troops

  Talshekh had.”

  “Fourth Lord Dinvah Shenchal,” Ahven said quietly. “He favors ‘The

  Fifth Refrain of the Returns’ and ‘The Song of Souls,’ among others. Simple melodies, with trite rhymes.”

  “Lord Zalachan was there,” Jek continued—he was accustomed to

  Ahven’s strange interruptions. “He didn’t speak much. He looked more

  troubled than the others, but not as nervous.”

  “‘The Onyxseer’s Child,’” Ahven whispered. “And ‘The Ballad of the

  Sixth Return.’ Straightforward songs that tell stories and always explain

  their morals.”

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  “Lord Naden was unwilling to be firm about his contacts in Reinar,” Jek

  explained. “He said that they were frightened to move against Talshekh.”

  “‘The Whisper of Spring,’ ‘The Words of Nale Elin,’ and ‘Kanar’s Last

  Dream,’” Ahven said. “Careful songs, that sound sweet to the ear, hiding

  their complexity. Naden lies. Lord Reinar will not sit and hide—he gathers his own forces. He will not come to our aid. Every day Talshekh sits in

  siege of this city is another day Lord Reinar has to prepare.”

  Jek frowned. Weeks spent with Ahven had not given Jek the insight

  he wished. He had made many assumptions about the Idiot King, but

  they had slowly betrayed themselves. He had thought that the man was a

  simple thug. Now, Jek was no longer certain. In truth, he was beginning to wonder at Ahven’s sanity. When Jek had returned from the meeting with

  the Puppeteer, he had found Ahven’s room empty. There had been two more

  yellow songbirds on the floor, their necks crushed.

  “Tell me, Jeksonsonvallano,” Ahven asked with a soft voice. “What songs

  do you prefer? If there were a minstrel here now, what would you have her

  sing?”

  For some reason, Jek felt a chill. “I don’t feel like listening to music at the moment,” he said.

  “Assume you did,” Ahven said. “What songs have you requested in the

  past? What songs do you hear that give you pause?”

  His bondage would not let him lie. “You will not know them. My favorite

  is called ‘The Kalanatanan.’”

  “Ah,
” Ahven said. “A ballad that tells a story indeed. A song of loyalty,

  and of a warrior who dies for his clan.”

  Jek shivered. “Yes,” he replied.

  Ahven nodded, then turned back toward the army. They had arrayed

  themselves carefully against the slight shelter of the sloping land. Veden City was unusual in that it wasn’t on a Lait—it was exposed to the full fury of the storms, when they came. The day was hot, the air dry in Jek’s throat.

  He had been in Kanar long enough to know that the storms would be very

  infrequent this time of year. When they did come, their fury would be such that it could be dangerous to be outdoors.

  “There,” Ahven said, nodding toward the city gates. “It has happened.”

  Jek peered down, looking out over the camp. No force was approaching,

  however, and he looked back with confusion. Then he saw it. The dis-

  turbance was not on the outside, but on the inside. A man on horseback

  ordered the gate opened—he carried a white flag and a spear.

  “The Puppeteer would have given no order for parlay,” Jek said.

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  “He didn’t give the order.”

  Looking closer, Jek saw something he hadn’t noticed before. There was

  an object sticking from the end of the messenger’s spear. A head.

  “Come,” Ahven ordered. “We must work quickly.”

  Sitting on his throne in the glory of the Veden palace, Ahven looked

  like a king. Even as an impotent king, Ahven had more wealth than any

  Shin clanleader. Here, in this heathen land, lords claimed to serve their

  people, but their expenditures and wastefulness proved otherwise.

  Ahven was resplendent with jewelry and gemstones, most notably

  diamonds, the symbol of Vedenar. Jewels had been sewn into his cloak and

  clothing, and his fingers glittered with rings. Watching him, it would have been impossible to know the way in which the rest of the nation regarded

  their king.

  Until he opened his mouth. “We welcome you to Veden City.” The king’s

  voice betrayed its characteristic muddled drawl, the result of a childhood spent with waning hearing, then an adulthood spent completely deaf. On

  top of it, Ahven added a slight hesitance . . . a stumbling of words. Not too overt—even an idiot could be trained in what to say—but it was enough.