“Looks like jade,” Renarin said. “A glyphward.”
As soon as Merin touched the glyphward, the air in the room drew
breath and came to life. Merin stood, frozen for a moment, the source of
the strange visions suddenly manifest. Just as before, he could see the air flowing through the room, sense its motions blowing in beneath the door,
seeping out through the shuttered window, and even being drawn in and
out by Renarin’s lungs.
Tentatively, he released the glpyhward. The room returned to normal.
“I wonder how it got in there,” Renarin was saying with a musing voice.
“Must have belonged to the man who tried to kill the king. A glyphward
brought with him, tucked safely in the gauntlet, for protection in battle.
Didn’t work very well, did it?”
Merin touched the glyphward again, tapping it as it hung from the string
below Renarin’s fingers. As soon as his fingers brushed the glyph, the air became visible again.
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“Merin?” Renarin asked, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Touch the glyphward,” Merin said. “Try it.”
Renarin shrugged, placing the glyph in his hand. “All right. What now?”
“You don’t . . . sense anything different?”
“No,” Renarin said. “Should I? It’s just a glyphward, Merin.”
It doesn’t work for him, Merin thought. But why? “What glyph is it?”
Merin regarded the carved character. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Looks
like it’s a derivative of Nah.”
Nah—power. Merin withdrew his hand uncertainly. What kind of
strange magic was this? Glyphwards were supposed to protect against the
supernatural, not foster it. And why would it work only for Merin?
“Do you want it?” Renarin asked.
Merin paused. Did he? He reached into his sencoat’s side pocket, pulling
out one of his mother’s sewn glyphwards—one he had carried with him
through battles. It was stained and dirtied, and would look silly next to his fine clothing, but his experiences earlier had taught him to at least carry it with him. He opened it up. “Here,” he said, “drop it in this.”
Renarin frowned, but did as requested. Merin folded the cloth, locking
the strange pendant within it, and tucked both in his pocket.
“And people say I’m strange,” Renarin mumbled, sitting down. “I—”
He was cut off as the door to Aredor’s audience chamber opened, and a
man stepped out, followed by Aredor. Merin didn’t recognize the stranger,
though he wore riding clothing—not lavish, but rich enough. Probably a
minor nobleman, Nineteenth or Twentieth Lord. The breast of his cloak
bore the glyph of House Kholin, but the glyph was twisted into an unfa-
miliar design.
Aredor stood for a moment, speaking to the newcomer.
“Who is he?” Merin whispered, leaning closer to Renarin.
“A very distant cousin,” Renarin whispered back. “From Crossguard—
one of Parshen Jezenrosh’s couriers.”
“Jezenrosh?” Merin asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be dying or something?”
Renarin shook his head. “He left the war because of sickness, but he’s
since recovered.”
Aredor gave the stranger a familial clasp on the shoulder, and the courier bowed his head, then turned and walked quickly from the room.
“What was that all about?” Merin asked as Aredor walked over to join
them.
“Family business,” Aredor said off-handily. He eyed Merin’s Shardplate,
sitting in a heap on the floor. “More wall-jumping?”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 217
Merin shook his head. “Vasher wants me to lean how to jump up to my
feet from a prone position without using my hands.”
“Wearing Shardplate?” Aredor asked with amusement. “That’s not
possible.”
“Oh, it is,” Merin said. “I managed to do it a couple of times.”
“Out of how many tries?” Aredor asked skeptically.
“Five hundred or so,” Merin admitted.
Aredor chuckled, and Merin blushed. “It’s better than last week,” Merin
said. “He had me jumping off the wall, landing on my feet, rolling to
the ground, coming up, swinging twenty times, then jogging back up the
stairs—all without stopping. Five repetitions nearly killed me.”
This time, Aredor laughed out loud. “Well,” he said, “if I ever get
attacked by a wall, I’ll know who to send for. I assume you’re here for the Kings reading?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Aredor replied. “She should arrive any moment.”
Merin paused. “She? You said you were going to bring in a monk!”
“Oh, did I?” Aredor said innocently. “Completely forgot.”
Merin flushed, looking down at his outfit. He was dressed in a padded
shennah undershirt and trousers, meant for use beneath armor. Both were
stained with sweat from his day’s exertions.
“By the winds!” he swore. “Loan me something else to wear!”
Aredor laughed, nodding toward his bedroom chambers. Merin rushed
inside, selecting an outfit as he heard the outer door open and a feminine voice speak. He hurriedly changed—Aredor was a tad taller than he, but
the clothing fit without looking too bad. He quickly splashed some water
on his face from the bin, sprinkled on a bit of scented oil on his neck, then composed himself and rejoined the others.
Merin had to admit, this one was rather attractive. Thin-faced with dark,
Aleth hair, she was a model of noble femininity—reserved without being
cold, immaculately dressed and composed. She rose when Merin entered,
bowing respectfully.
Aredor winked his direction, and Merin resisted the urge to roll his
eyes. “Merin,” Aredor announced, “let me introduce the Lady Sankal,
first daughter of Lord Chanaran Miendavnah. We are fortunate for this
opportunity—Lady Sankal is known for her poetic voice.”
“It is an honor, my lady,” Merin said with a nod.
“For I, as well,” the lady replied. “Please, be seated. You wished to hear from The Way of Kings? Which section?”
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“The First,” Merin requested, seating himself beside Aredor on the
couch. Lady Sankal waved to her companion—a younger girl, probably
Sankal’s ward, who bore a very thick tome. Sankal seated herself as well,
opening the book in her lap.
“Part One,” she read, “The Ideal Monarch. The Sovereign is not a tyrant,
but a father. As the Almighty cares for his creations, so the Sovereign
should love and care for his people. His is a holy position, granted to him by birth from the Almighty. In the eternal eye of the Almighty, a Sovereign’s worth will be judged not by his acts of heroism, his great conquests, or
his wealth. It will be determined by the love he earned from his people.”
Despite his annoyance with Aredor, Merin smiled. The reading was
far better than the ones he had received from the monks. Lady Senkal
spoke with a melodic cadence, converting Bajerden’s simple passages into
a rhythmic near-ballad. Her voice was sweet and relaxing, and she never
stumbled over words like the monks often did.
“She’s something, eh?” Aredor said quietly, nudging him. “You should
trust me more.”
Merin raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t forgiven you yet,” he informed.
“Oh?” Aredor asked. “What are you going to do? Make me jump off the
wall a couple of times?”
“No,” Merin replied. “But next time I’m up there, I’ll do my best to make
certain I fall on you.”
Aredor chuckled to himself, leaning back and relaxing as he listened.
Merin did likewise. Actually, he was rather pleased with the outcome,
even if he were getting a little tired of The Way of Kings. He felt guilty admitting it, even to himself, but it was true. He knew the words were
important—Kanaran society was founded on Bajerden’s philosophies.
However, the writing was just so dry. Bajerden outlined his beliefs in a
straightforward, but dull, manner. Merin had been excited the first couple of times he had received a reading, but Dalenar had recommended that
Merin hear from the book at least once a week—more often when he
could manage it. Even with six sections to choose from, the readings were
beginning to seem very repetitive.
“The great and magnificent duty of the Sovereign is the safety of his
people. Without them, he is nothing. As they provide for his sustenance,
he must provide for their livelihoods. The second duty of the Sovereign is the wealth of his people. He is a waged servant, and if his people do not
prosper more because of his presence, then he has failed them.”
The book made more sense to him now that he understood that
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 219
Bajerden’s word ‘Sovereign’ didn’t just refer to the king, but to anyone of noble blood. The first and fourth sections were the ones Merin found most
interesting—the first because it reminded him of the heroes of the past,
and the fourth because it mentioned Protocol and swordplay. However,
even the best sections were a little dry.
Merin forced himself to continue listening to readings, however. Dalenar
was right—how could he perform his duty if he didn’t understand what
that duty was? There was no better place to hear about the obligations of
his station than through The Way of Kings.
The truth was, however, he would much rather have been hearing from
one of the great ballads. He had accidentally made the discovery—after a
The Way of Kings reading, Merin had heard a monk reading from The Fall of Kanar in a nearby room. He had gone to investigate, and had listened ravenously. It wasn’t until that moment that he had realized the treasure at his disposal—there were hundreds of great epics to be heard, everything
from The Betrayal of Inavah to The Chronicles of the Returns. Back in Stonemount, he had only been able to hear the songs known by townsfolk or
passing minstrels, but now—as a Lord—he could demand any of them on
a whim. It had become his habit to request a reading from one of them
after hearing a section out of The Way of Kings.
Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to sneak in any ballad-reading this
day. Lady Senkal marched onward through her recitation, reading about
the rules by which a sovereign should decide whether or not to go to war.
“She’s not married, you know,” Aredor whispered about three-quarters
of the way through the reading.
Merin rolled his eyes. “Why is it you insist on trying to marry me off?”
he hissed. “You’re five years older than me, and you haven’t seen fit to woo a bride yet—in fact, everything I hear claims you enjoy keeping the women
guessing.”
“I’m horribly misrepresented,” Aredor said. “It’s a conspiracy among the
mothers. None of them want me as a son-in-law.”
Merin shot his friend a suffering look. Aredor was one of the most
sought-after matches in Alethkar. It was commonly expected that he would
be chosen as Parshen after his father died—either way, he would inherit Kholinar, one of the most powerful cities in the kingdom. Any mother
would be eager to choose him for her daughter if she thought he would
agree to the match.
Aredor nodded toward Senkal. “Her father is lord of Basinrock,” he
noted. “A sixth city.”
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“And?” Merin asked. That made her a Sixteenth Lady.
“And,” Aredor said meaningfully, “she has no brothers.”
No brothers? Merin thought with surprise, turning to regard the woman again. She continued her reading despite the whispers—apparently, it was
expected that the men would get distracted every once in a while. She
looked up as she spoke, shooting him a glance and a smile, then looked
down at the book.
“That means her husband will inherit the city,” Aredor explained quietly.
“I’m not dense, Aredor,” Merin replied.
“Basinrock is only a sixth city,” Aredor continued. “But that’s very
respectable, all things considered. It’s a tribute city to Kholinar right now, but its emerald mines are productive enough that my father has considered
granting it ful independence. If its lord were a relative, Father could easily be persuaded to make the change. Her father is very eager to see that happen.”
“Eager enough to marry his daughter to a former peasant?” Merin asked
with a frown.
“Don’t be so quick to judge them, Merin,” Aredor said. “Not every
nobleman is like Meridas or the king. Some of us see a lorded citizen as
the most honorable kind of nobleman. Listen to what Bajerden says—his
entire social system is based around the idea of rewarding those who serve well. The best leaders are to be elevated, and those who deserve nobility
will find it. In a way, your existence legitimizes all of us.”
Merin sat back thoughtfully, remaining quiet until the end of the recita-
tion. Once it was finished, Lady Senkal modestly withdrew—it would be
unseemly for her to tarry too long with men she had barely met. As she left, however, she mentioned that she would be visiting Kholinar for a period
of two weeks, and that she would be pleased to return and read to them
from the other sections.
“I think she likes you,” Aredor said after the door closed.
“That’s because she couldn’t smell me,” Merin said with a frown. “Next
time, warn me when you’re going to do something like that.”
Aredor snorted. “Last time I did, you found an excuse to run away and
hide. Pick up your sword—it’s time for training.”
The opal in Merin’s Shardblade had darkened steadily over the weeks.
Merin examined the gemstone closely as he walked, peering into its greying depths. It had been about two months since the final Pralir battle—nearly
eighty days. He was getting so close . . . just a few more weeks, and the
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 221
Blade would be his completely. He would be able to dismiss it and recall it, and all shadows of its former owner would be gone.
As it was, the only remnant of the dead man was a faint outline of the
glyphs running up the length of the blade. Over the weeks, the weapon
had lengthened by half a foot, growing to Merin’s needs. The gemstone-like indentations on the blade had melted away, instead being replaced by
shifting waves that looked something like water. Merin wasn’t certain
why the design was appearing—he’d only seen the ocean once, when they
had passed near its tip while marching to Prallah. Yet he was told that the Blade would know his soul better than he
did, and that its ornamentations
would reflect him.
The blade had begun to curve slightly, losing its straightness. That, at
least, he understood. The fighting style Vasher was teaching him relied
heavily on broad swings and slashes, and had very little focus on thrusts.
The weapon was growing to fit his training. The hilt had grown as well,
perfect for the two-handed blows he often delivered, and the crossguard
was curving delicately, the ends growing into points.
“You know,” Aredor noted, “staring at it won’t make it bond any faster.”
Merin lowered the weapon. “I’m just worried—the dueling competition
is only a few days away. I guess I won’t have the weapon bonded in time.”
“You can still participate,” Aredor said. “You’ll just have to fight with the sheath on so you don’t accidentally hurt anyone.”
“That will make it awkward to fight,” Merin said. “Assuming I even get
to participate.”
“You haven’t asked him yet?” Aredor asked.
Merin shook his head. “I’m going to do it today.”
“He’s got to let you,” Aredor said confidently. “I mean, why is he training you, if not to teach you how to duel? This is a perfect opportunity to test your skills.”
Merin wasn’t so certain. Vasher still forbade Merin from dueling with
anyone besides himself and a couple of his fellow monks. Merin bid Aredor
farewell as they entered the monastery, making his way toward Vasher’s
customary corner of the courtyard.
Vasher nodded to him as he approached. “Today we spar again,” he said
simply, tossing Merin a practice sword.
Merin caught the sword and fell into his stance. A few moments later,
they were trading blows on the sandy ground. Merin liked to think
he was getting better. After all, Vasher had finally consented to begin
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teaching him how to spar, rather than just making him practice swings
and stances.
Of course, Merin had yet to even score a hit on the older man. He tried
hard as they practiced—waiting for that one chance, that one opening,
when he would finally show his teacher his improvement. It had yet to
come.
Merin held up a hand forstallingly as the latest exchange ended. Vasher
waited patiently as Merin stretched his arms, then fell back into a dueling stance. The stance was the sign, and the elder monk advanced again, kicking up sand as he approached. Merin held his weapon forward, watching carefully
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