Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

  one another, then had solidified behind a single leader. Even if that man

  died, an army would still sit outside of Veden City. Yes, killing Talshekh would end one threat, but even if another civil war ensued, one thing would be universally understood. Ahven could not remain on the throne.

  Jek could see it now—Talshekh’s pavilion. Getting in would be difficult.

  Here, the walls were cloth, and not stone. Sounds traveled easily, and

  signs of struggle could be seen by flickering light. Killing Talshekh would not solve Ahven’s basic problem, but it probably wouldn’t hurt. The more

  squabbling, the more confusion, the longer the Idiot King would have to

  plan.

  Jek leaned down, staying close to the ground, his cheek almost touching

  the stone beneath. He felt the rock with his fingertips, whispering an

  apology for the blood he must spill upon it. Ahven had given no order to

  attack Talshekh, but Jek’s Bond was more than simple slavery of body—it

  required more. It required honor and duty, without the rewards of either.

  If killing Talshekh helped his master, then Truth demanded he act.

  And then he saw them. Four men, bearing staves of wood, slowly patrolling the perimeter of Talshekh’s tent. Men with light skin and familiar clothing. Shin warriors.

  Jek shrank back into the darkness, surprised. Where had Talshekh

  found Shin willing to serve him? Were they Truthless? No, that couldn’t

  be possible—it would be too much of a coincidence. The men held

  identical staves and walked with familiarity. They were of the same clan.

  Falnakandan? Trudunashas? Both were Clans of the Staff. But, why would

  they . . . ?

  Jek felt his palms grow slick against the stone. It had been long since

  he had faced a true warrior, too long. There could be only one reason they would consent to guarding Talshekh—he must have convinced them that

  he was in danger from a Shin assassin. They would be watching for one such as Jek. How many more were there? Four alert Shin warriors were enough

  of a risk on their own, but if there were others . . .

  Jek slipped back into the darkness. He would serve his Bond foolishly if

  he got himself killed without orders. He would let Ahven decide.

  Jek frowned as he searched the city. It was busy despite the late hour.

  The people knew that Talshekh’s army had returned, and many probably

  understood what that meant. Already, merchants had rushed from the city,

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  offering goods and comforts to the wearied troops. The gates were wide

  open, a sign from the nobility of Vedenar—they would give up their fool of a king willingly, if it would bring their own safety.

  Except that king was not to be found. The nobility was visibly disturbed.

  Their messengers and servants scuttled through the city as bobs of lanternlight, searching frantically for their sacrificial monarch. Without proof of his blood, they would not be able to ensure the invader’s good will.

  Jek crouched on a rooftop, watching a particular lantern­lit figure on the streets below. He recognized the man despite his lack of uniform—he was

  one of Ahven’s guards, one of those who had appeared to know his king’s

  secret. He had been waiting in the shadows outside Ahven’s palace, hiding

  as best an easterner could manage, when the assembled troops of the Veden

  nobility had come for the king.

  The soldier was probably loyal, but he was terrible at sneaking. He constantly looked over his shoulder, and he crept when he should have strolled. Even

  the other easterners should have noticed something suspicious about his

  movements—Jek was surprised that none of the many street­goers gave the

  soldier a second look. They were too busy with their problems to realize

  that the answer they sought was lurking his way past them on the street.

  The low stone buildings of Veden City were perfect for roof­top fol owing, and Jek had no trouble tailing his prey. The man’s destination, however, gave him pause. Jek settled down against the firm stone of a roof, crouching and studying the building the soldier entered.

  The structure was taller than most, though still only one story. Its sloping rock walls glistened with flakes of quartz, and even in the darkness Jek

  could make out the lavish metal ornamentations on the pillars and doors.

  In front, a tall bronze statue stood with an outstretched hand, pointing

  toward the city. In his other hand, the statue held a triangular shield—the Kanaran symbol of justice.

  Jek pulled back into the shadows, thinking. The statue could only

  represent one figure—Nale Elin, Herald of Justice. He was the one Jek’s

  people called Halanatan, Stoneborn of Blood Opal. Jek had always avoided

  the Elinrah temples. The heathens’ common­day perversions were bad

  enough; he hadn’t any desire to know what the clandestine New Religions

  did with the sacred stories of the Ten Stoneborn.

  Yet, if Ahven was associated with the Church of Nale, it would explain

  much. Of all the Elinrah cults, the Church of Nale was one of the most

  secretive yet most powerful. Jek could finally stop wondering how Ahven

  could act so innocently impotent, yet have such good information.

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  Jek dropped from the rooftop into the alley beside. He could not wait.

  If Ahven was truly inside the Elinrah temple, then the king would probably not remain there for long. Ahven’s smartest course of action was probably flight—and if the king escaped, it could take Jek months to track him down. Jek stepped into the light, and adopted the air of urgency he

  had seen in the postures of so many this night. Hopefully, if someone

  saw him, they would think him simply another attendant, rushing to warn

  his master’s allies of the king’s disappearance.

  He quickly approached the Elinrah temple. He kept his head bowed,

  partially not to draw attention, and partially so he wouldn’t have to look up at the paganized image of Nale Elin. How little the heathens understood.

  Could they not see that the Stoneborn were holy? That their images should

  not be crafted into any substance that was not stone? Even worse, Jek knew of the Kanarans preference for using the Sacred Arts. The statue probably

  hadn’t been of bronze when it was first sculpted. For some reason, the use of sacred powers in combination with the creation of a desecrated icon was even worse than most paganisms.

  The temple’s broad gates were not open, but the soldier had entered

  through a secondary, smaller door. Jek approached this, trying to decide

  how far he would go to discover the king’s location. These men might

  be Ahven’s allies—killing them would be unwise. However, there was also

  the possibility that they had the Idiot King held captive, and that the soldier Jek had trailed was a traitor.

  The small door opened as Jek approached, revealing a darkened hallway

  beyond. Two men stood in deep blue cloaks—not black, for that was

  reserved for Awakeners. The men had their hoods drawn after the manner

  of those trying to appear secretive and mysterious.

  “We were told that you might come,” one of them said in a quiet voice.

  “You may enter, man of Shinavar. Realize, however, the privilege given

  you. Many wait years before being allowed admittance to the home of the

  sacred brotherhood.”

  Jek kept his tongue, wondering if these men understood just how foolish

  they appeared. If they wished to
be secretive, they should have studied the Shin Clans of the Blade—clans such as the one Jek had once belonged to.

  A Shin clan would never have built a massive building in the middle of

  the city to proclaim how enigmatic it was. Clans of the Blade were unseen, unheard, but deadly.

  The hallway inside was crafted completely of bronze. Jek stepped onto

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  the metal floor with relief—it was only a short removal from the stone, but it was a welcome one. One of the cloaked figures led him through cramped

  bronze corridors that twisted around in a spiral, eventually leading him to a doorway encrusted with various gemstones. The only illumination came

  from a candle held by Jek’s guide.

  The man pushed open the door, and Jek was pleased to see the Idiot King

  inside. Ahven wore no robe. In fact, he wore clothing far less extravagant than normal—seasilks after the noble cut, but unladen by gemstones or

  jewelry. He wore a deep red cloak with the hood pulled back. The room

  felt large compared to the tiny hallways, though it was probably only about fifteen feet square. It was illuminated by ten glowing braziers, which cast a rubicon glow across the metallic walls.

  Cloaked brotherhood members knelt along the walls. Ahven, however,

  stood, looking toward four bundles of cloth that lay on a raised dais at

  the back of the room. They were children, Jek realized, cloaked almost

  completely in dark swaths of seasilk. The youngest was perhaps ten years

  old, the eldest a girl that might have been in her late teens.

  The children sat with their hands forward, trails of sand streaming

  from clenched fists onto the ground in front of them. Their eyes watched

  the falling sand. The entire dais, Jek realized, was crafted from a black

  stone.

  Onyx.

  No! Jek thought with shock. That isn’t possible. He hissed quietly in surprise, stepping into the room, studying the children’s faces and skin.

  No, they were not Shin. They were Kanaran. But . . . it was impossible.

  “You must find the girl,” one of the children whispered, not looking up

  from his streaming sand—not even moving, save to eventually reach over

  to the pot of sand beside him to grab another handful.

  “I know where she is,” Ahven said, confident.

  “You will lose her,” the child said. “You will have to find her again.”

  “Beware of the Windrunner,” the eldest of them said. “I see him. He will

  not know you, but he could destroy you.”

  “Who is he?” Ahven demanded.

  The girl shook her head. “I see . . . patterns. Too many patterns. All of

  them point toward danger. You must move quickly, Idiot King. Something

  has gone wrong in the world. It must have a leader. Conqueror, savior, or

  tyrant—it matters not. There must be unity.”

  “Now is a time for boldness,” the boy who had spoken before agreed. “I

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  see . . . chaos in the patterns. Our protectors have fallen. Someone must

  make ten kingdoms into one.”

  The last handful of sand dropped, and the children did not reach for

  more. Ahven nodded his head slightly—almost a bow—then turned toward

  Jek. “Come,” he said, striding from the room.

  Jek wasn’t quick to follow. He stared at the children, and at the sand, and at the onyx. A fabrication, he told himself. They speak nonsense and imitate the patterns of the past. Somehow, he couldn’t quite convince himself.

  “Assassin,” Ahven snapped. “Come.”

  Jek turned and followed. “Those were Holetatinal!” he said.

  Ahven raised an eyebrow. “They didn’t seem Shin to me, assassin,” he

  said.

  “Onyxseers,” Jek said, his voice—though quiet—echoing in the metal

  hallway. “You realize they must be fake. There haven’t been Onyxseers in

  Kanar since the Ninth Epoch.”

  “Perhaps,” Ahven said.

  “They tell you what you want to hear,” Jek insisted. “They’re obviously

  mimicking the actions of Shin Stone Shamans.”

  Ahven didn’t respond, so Jek tried another tactic. “You should escape,”

  he said. “Talshekh is guarded by Shin clansmen. I could try to assassinate him, but I would probably fail. Even if I kill him, another will try to take your throne.”

  Ahven shook his head. “You’re not going to kill Talshekh,” he said.

  “Come.”

  “What are you going to do?” Jek demanded as two robed forms opened

  the doors before them, letting Ahven out onto the night street.

  “You heard the seers,” Ahven said. “It is time for boldness.”

  Lord Talshekh looked slightly less impressive without his Shardplate. He was still massive, but much of that mass was contained in an ample gut and stocky legs. Despite the girth, he was well­muscled—but

  his were the muscles of an aging man whose battles had mostly passed.

  He looked a little disheveled—he had probably taken Ahven’s disappearance

  as a sign that the king had fled. He certainly hadn’t expected his enemy to stride into the middle of his camp, accompanied by nothing more than a

  couple of guards and a solitary Shin assassin.

  News of the arrival, however, brought crowds. Jek noted a large group

  of Vedenel noblemen gathering on one side of the camp, their eyes wide

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  with pleasured surprise. Perhaps they had come pleading for their lives or to assure Talshekh that their political enemies had been the ones who aided in Ahven’s disappearance.

  Ahven stood quietly in the night, torches whispering before gusts of wind.

  What did he expect? That Talshekh would accept his surrender? Ahven

  held the throne. Talshekh could not let such a threat to his leader ship live.

  Indeed, as soon as Talshekh stepped from his tent and saw Ahven,

  the Davar lord smiled deeply and summoned his Shardblade. Those in

  attendance would witness the murder, but they would not contradict

  Talshekh’s inevitable declaration that they had released the country from

  incompetent rule—that he had performed his act in the name of justice,

  rather than ambition.

  Talshekh stepped forward and swung his Blade at the Idiot King’s

  head. Ahven ducked, nearly falling to the ground as he whipped back his

  cloak and pulled a sword from beneath its depths. Ahven spun behind the

  surprised Talshekh.

  The idiot king was trained as a warrior.

  He wasn’t masterful—Jek could see that much. Neither was he incompetent. However, no great amount of skill was required to dodge Talshekh’s arrogant strike. Nor was mastery necessary to spin behind the large man

  as Ahven did, his own Shardblade raised high over his head.

  Ahven sheared Talshekh’s head in half with a single stroke. Ahven had

  probably meant to aim for the neck, but he hit somewhere right below

  the ear instead. It didn’t matter—the Blade cut through the large Davar

  nobleman’s head with ease.

  Talshekh’s corpse slumped to the ground. The crowd’s eyes lingered on

  it, stunned.

  Of course Ahven has a Shardblade, Jek realized. He’s king. They couldn’t have kept one from him, idiot or not. The Blade is a sign of nobility.

  Ahven stood before the crowd, bloodied sword held in firmly in a

  post­swing posture. “Last night, the Almighty appeared to me in a dream,”

  he said loudly. It took Jek a moment to realize what was wrong—
Ahven’s

  accent was gone. He sounded normal. “He said He would heal me of my

  infirm mind, for the Three Houses needed a leader. Talshekh, obviously,

  was not that leader.”

  Then Ahven stood up straight and dismissed his Blade. The Idiot King

  strode forward, stepping over Talshekh’s body, and walked toward the open

  city gates. Jek thought that someone might challenge him, but no one did.

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  Jek hurried after Ahven, glancing back with apprehension. The collected

  noblemen were still staring at the corpse.

  “Now what?” Jek asked, turning back to Ahven.

  “Now,” Ahven said with a smile, “we wait for them to figure it out. I have another task for you.”

  “Someone you need dead?”

  “No,” Ahven replied. “Someone I need . . . retrieved.”

  chapter 27

  MERIN 6

  “Let the duels begin!”

  Merin forced his cheers to sound as enthusiastic as those of the

  other men. Indeed, he couldn’t help but absorb the feast hall’s general feeling of levity. Servants burst from the side doors, bringing forth steaming dishes. Men around him rested their fine-clothed arms on the tables and

  began to chat with enthusiasm, speculating on the evening’s matches.

  Merin, sitting amidst it all, found the experience almost surreal. Part of him was still the son of a Sixth Citizen farmer. That part didn’t belong in a position of respect, between Dalenar’s two sons at a table with an enviable view of the second dueling ring. Yet, that had somehow become his place.

  Another part of Merin, a part growing ever stronger, found the men around

  him increasingly familiar, the spicy food increasingly delicious, and the

  seasilk clothing increasingly natural. The excitement was almost enough to make him forget about his own inability to participate in the competition.

  There will be other duels. Other competitions. Don’t worry yourself, lad. You shall see enough of fighting in your life. They were Dalenar’s words, spoken to him when Aredor had complained about Vasher’s restriction.

  Aredor was still noticeably upset. Though he joked with the young

  men at the table, every time he saw Merin’s yet-unbonded Shardblade

  sitting beside his chair, his lips downturned slightly. He had obviously been

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