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looking forward to this event as an opportunity to reveal his young protégé to the court at large. Despite his relative open-mindedness, Aredor was stil a nobleman, and did not like having his plans diverted by the whims of a
lowborn monk.
Merin glanced toward the king’s table, looking past scurrying servants,
boisterous noblemen, and nervous duel participants. The king’s table sat
before the primary dueling ring, the one where the main competition for
Shardblades would take place. Aredor and Renarin had chosen a table near
the right-hand ring instead, claiming that duels between Shardbearers were more interesting. The victors in these duels would earn not only honor, but a fair opportunity of gaining lordship of a city in the newly-conquered
lands of Aleth-Prallah.
At the king’s table, Lord Dalenar’s austere face looked worried, even
more so than usual. The King’s demotion of Lord Jezenrosh had obviously
unsettled Dalenar—apparently, removing the title of Parshen from a man was an irregular move. Yet, the rest of the crowd seemed to have accepted
the decision—Jezenrosh hadn’t been seen in court for a long time, and it
was obvious he wasn’t fulfilling his duties as Parshen. Even Aredor seemed to have gotten over the announcement, though he had hissed in anger when
Elhokar first made it.
Dalenar obviously hadn’t moved on so easily. Merin tried to imagine
Lord Dalenar as people had described him in his youth—outgoing, even
rowdy, with a loud voice and a love of fighting. Merin shook his head—he
couldn’t picture such a thing. Merin had known only one Dalenar. Stern,
but kind. Dutiful and reserved. He sat with a quiet sense of decorum as
the men around him—including the king—made rancor. This is the type of nobleman I would be.
Merin turned his attention back to the ring before his table, where the
first contestants were preparing to duel. Merin heard cheers from behind
as the other matches began, but he was glad for Aredor’s choice of tables.
He had never seen Shardbearers duel up close, and Vasher had instructed
him to be observant of the forms and styles used.
Their ring was by far the largest of the three, and the tables were set back from its perimeter. Both contestants wore Shardplate—either their own or
borrowed. The armors were more colorful than Merin’s; he had been forced
to spend most of his monthly stipend on clothing and other requirements
of class. It would be some time before he could afford to have the armorers accent his Plate with designs, paints, or silks.
The contestants raised Shardblades—the sign that both had summoned
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 261
their weapons—and the match began. The first one to score two hits in the
same general location would be declared the winner.
The two men clinked forward, obviously well-accustomed to moving
in Shardplate. One man wore plate that had been painted a ruddy brown,
and his Blade was a wide-bladed weapon, thicker at the top than at the
base, almost like a large, intricate cleaver. The other man’s weapon was
thinner than most, his armor a light—almost imperceptible—green. Merin
watched with interest as they made their first tentative strikes, judging one another.
“When are you up?” Renarin asked, leaning forward to look past Merin
at his brother.
“Eighteenth,” Aredor replied. “I’m dueling Tiren of Fardust.”
The crowd cheered as the man with the thin sword scored a direct
thrust against his opponent’s chest. “I’ve never seen a Shardblade meant
for stabbing before,” Merin noted.
“There aren’t many of them,” Aredor replied. “Most of the dueling forms
discourage thrusting, and it’s against Protocol to attack the face.”
“Why?” Merin asked as the two Shardbearers moved back to the edges
of the ring to begin the second point.
Aredor shrugged. “It’s always been that way, ever since the forms were
developed, back during the days of the Epoch Kingdoms. There was proba-
bly a reason—people didn’t use spears or arrows very often back then either.”
The second point ended quickly, as the red-armored Shardbearer used his
greater size to push his opponent nearly to the edge of the ring, eventually striking a loud blow against the side of the man’s head. Even with dulled
Blades, the blow sounded painful, but the green-armored man raised a
hand, indicating he could continue.
As they prepared for the third point, Merin turned his attention to
the food. Back in Stonemount, he had been accustomed to simple inavah
cakes and soup, with the occasional splurge of pork—good, robust food,
as his mother had always called it. The lords, however, could never do
anything with simplicity. Even after two months in Kholinar, Merin was
barely accustomed to the spices. He always forced himself to eat them,
however—even when he wasn’t dining at evening meal with Lord Dalenar
and his sons. He needed to learn how to be like the others.
So, he dished himself several large slices of glazed pork, and then carved off a chunk and downed it. The taste was amazing, but the heat of the spices followed immediately, and Merin reached for his flagon of wine, gulping
it down.
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Aredor chuckled at Merin’s red face. “Go easy on that,” he said, nodding
to the gold flagon. “Remember, you only get three cups.”
Merin nodded. It was Lord Dalenar’s restriction— The Way of Kings forbid drunkenness of the nobility, a prohibition most of the other lords seemed
to ignore. Dalenar had ordered all members of his house to drink no more
than three flagons. For Dalenar, that was almost gluttonous—at Kholinar
dinners, they were allowed only one.
Merin sat the flagon down, barely able to taste the wine’s sweet flavor
over the spices. He had never had alcohol before leaving Stonemount, but
the other spearmen had made certain to rectify that oversight as soon as
they discovered it. Those were not nights he would miss with any great
sense of loss—he had trouble remembering them, anyway.
The bout ended with the green-armored knight making good on his
first strike, sweeping his opponent’s feet out from beneath him and scoring another hit to the man’s chest. The onlooking men cheered enthusiastically; the women smiled in their controlled way. The next bout began almost
immediately.
As the evening progressed, Merin watched the duels with fascination.
Though he was growing more and more accustomed to Shardplate and
its quirks, it still amazed him that men could move so fluidly within its
confines. Those who were well-trained were able to perform some extraor-
dinary feats for the crowd, jumping nearly half the length of the thirty-foot ring, swinging their Blades with such power that they hummed in the air,
and smashing each other’s armor with such force that even the Shardplate
showed some dents from the blows.
As he watched, Merin thought he saw the things that Vasher wanted him
to notice. Those who were trained in their Plate—not just in dueling—had
an enormous advantage. In addition, the differences between fighting styles was amazing. Each man seemed to have his own personal form, and the
various Shardblades reflected this
. Even among similar styles, the Blades
each bore slight differences in length or shape, matching their master’s needs.
As the eighteenth bout approached, Aredor rose, moving to the dressing
square, where servants helped Shardbearers don or remove their armor.
He returned a few moments later, wearing his Plate, a frown on his face.
“What?” Merin asked.
“Tiren forfeited,” Aredor explained, sitting with a clink. The chair held
his weight—the fine hardwood was reinforced with steel to accommodate
Shardbearers.
Merin frowned. “Why?”
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 263
“Something he ate yesterday has apparently made him ill,” Aredor
replied. “He thought he could fight, but he’s had a relapse.”
“Well, that’s good for you,” Renarin noted. “You advance automatically.”
Aredor shrugged. “There’s not really much for me to gain by winning
this—I’m already heir to a Third City. Given the choice, I’d rather duel
than just advance.”
Merin nodded in understanding—he would rather have dueled and lost,
as opposed to just watching. As Aredor tapped his gauntleted fingers on
the table, obviously frustrated, a page wiggled between the room’s tables
and approached.
“Lord Aredor,” the young man said. “We may have found a substitute for
Lord Tiren, if you still wish to compete in the first round.”
Aredor perked up. “Who?”
“Lord Aredor,” a smooth voice said from behind.
Merin turned with surprise, recognizing a narrow-faced man. Meridas—
now Parshen Meridas—stood outfitted in bright gold-and-silver Shardplate with a blood-red cape. His new Shardblade sat clasped before him, point
down, wearing a protective metal sheath over its edge.
“Lord Meridas,” Aredor said slowly. “You are the replacement?”
“Indeed,” Meridas said, eyeing Merin and Renarin. “Your compan-
ions do not participate? Lord Renarin . . . well, we can understand his
predic ament—he has embarrassed House Kholin enough. But the peasant
Shardbearer? Why is he sitting out? Are you worried that he too will make
a fool of himself before the court?”
“Watch yourself, Meridas,” Aredor warned.
“No,” Meridas said pleasantly, “you be certain to watch your tongue, Lord Aredor. It appears that I now outrank you. You may be cousin to the king,
but I will soon be his brother. Besides, what was it you once told me about not crossing Parshen s?”
Aredor flushed, standing. “Bring your Blade, merchant,” he spat, waving
the page away. “Let us begin.”
“Aredor . . .” Renarin said uncertainly. Aredor, however, held up a
forestalling hand, then gestured for Meridas to enter the ring. Meridas
nodded agreeably and took his place.
“I don’t understand,” Merin said to Renarin as Aredor entered the ring,
holding out his hand and summoning his Shardblade. “I’ve seen Meridas at
the monastery, but he only became a Shardbearer a few minutes ago. How
can he hope to fight Aredor with Blades?”
“Look at his weapon,” Renarin said. “The opal.”
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Merin squinted, catching a glimpse of Meridas’s pommel stone. The opal
was nearly black. “It’s nearly as dark as mine is!” Merin objected. “But how?”
“He must have had a Shardblade sometime before,” Renarin explained.
“One that he lost somehow—like I did. If he took the opal off of it before he lost it, he could use that opal on the new Blade.”
“You can do that?” Merin asked with surprise.
Renarin nodded, fishing in his cloak pocket for a moment, then bringing
out a dark black stone. “If I ever get another blade, I can attach this and bond it quickly. Of course, I don’t really care. I never wanted one in the first place. It just gave people an excuse to try and duel me.”
Merin frowned at the new information, turning back to the dueling ring.
“How long until he bonds it completely?”
“That depends on how long it’s been since he lost his Blade,” Renarin
said. “A few days, at most. Most re-bonds take only a few moments. He
must have lost the Blade many years ago.”
The duel began, and suddenly Merin was very worried. Everyone said
that Aredor was one of the finest duelists in the kingdom—in fact, he
was highly favored to win the Shardbearers’ competition. Merin could see
confidence in his friend’s eyes—Aredor expected to beat Meridas with ease.
He hadn’t noticed the opal.
The first exchange made that mistake obvious. Every duelist’s style was
different, but they all fol owed similar lines of development. As the previous duels had progressed, Aredor had named off the various dueling styles for
Merin—each named after the gemstone that fit the personality of the
style. Sapphire Form, with its wide swings and flowing movements, Ruby
Form, with its blazing offense, and others.
Meridas’s style was unlike any Merin had seen that evening. He stood
with a relaxed, almost indifferent posture, Shardblade held point-down
beside his right leg. When Aredor approached for the first testing swing,
however, Meridas changed. Merin didn’t even see Meridas’s hand move—
the arm was a blur as he raised his weapon for a sudden flurry of one-handed attacks.
The blade snapped four times against Aredor’s armor, the blows ringing
in the air. The final blow took Aredor in the back, smashing with such
power that Meridas split the sheath from his Shardblade, throwing the
two pieces of metal to the sides and leaving a large scar across the back of Aredor’s silver armor.
Aredor groaned, raising a hand to the side of his helmet, where Meri-
das had struck him twice. Meridas stepped back, once again nonchalant,
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 265
weapon held beside him in the same strange unconcerned dueling stance.
The officiator awarded him a point—only one could be gained per ex-
change—but Meridas raised a hand.
“I forfeit,” he said idly, strolling from the ring.
Aredor stumbled back toward their table, the crowd watching with
stunned eyes. His eyes were dazed as he dismissed his Blade, then pulled
off his helm.
“By the winds!” he hissed, regarding the helm with stupefaction. “How
did he hit me so hard . . . and so quickly? Where did he learn to duel like that?”
Renarin was watching the retreating Meridas, his eyes troubled. “That
one is not what we assumed,” he whispered.
“No need to tell me!” Aredor mumbled, reaching back and trying to feel
the scar on the back of his Plate. Finally he just sighed, pounding the table with an armored fist. “He took me by surprise!” he complained. “I was a
fool—I thought . . .”
Merin shrugged helplessly. “At least you weren’t eliminated.”
“He retreated so that I wouldn’t have a chance to prove I could beat him,”
Aredor said with a curse. “He attacked when he knew I wouldn’t be ready
for him, then left before I could redeem myself. He didn’t want to defeat
me; he wanted to humiliate me!”
The crowd’s shock wore away as the next two duelists entered the ring.
Eventually, Aredor tromped off to remove his armor, and
Merin returned to
his overly flavorful meal. Renarin, however, continued to watch the king’s table, regarding Meridas with one of his indecipherable looks.
chapter 28
SHINRI 5
Shinri could tell immediately that something was wrong. Not from
Lady Jasnah’s face—it was stone, like always. Nelshenden, however,
looked sick with worry. He didn’t stand near the wall, like the other nobleman soldier attendants, but squatted beside lady Jasnah’s table, speaking quietly with her.
Shinri hastened her step as she entered the feast hall, pushing through
the scents of feasting and the sounds of dueling. Shame burned within
her. She had spent too long in Thalenah, talking with King Amelin. When
she’d hurried to return, she’d been caught in the traffic at the Oathgate—
noblemen of far higher rank than her travelling to Alethkar to view or
participate in the duels. Despite protests, she’d been forced to wait for
hours before returning. She’d hoped to make it in time for the betrothal
announcement, but apparently she’d just missed it. What had happened?
Why did Lady Jasnah sit at the queen’s table, rather than her own?
“My lady!” Shinri said, hurrying to the stool beside Jasnah, etiquette
forgotten for the moment.
Jasnah looked up at her with disapproving eyes—eyes that could make
Shinri feel shame even when she did something right. Though at the queen’s table, Lady Kholin sat alone, several seats separating her from any of the queen’s normal attendants.
“Shinri,” Jasnah said flatly. “I expected you to arrive on time for this
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 267
event. Be thankful that my brother pays little attention to women—if you
had been a Shardbearer, he would likely have reprimanded you.”
Shinri flushed. “My lady . . .” she trailed off, looking at Nelshenden.
The handsome soldier’s face was dark. She couldn’t ever remember seeing
such anger in the honest man’s eyes. Menacing, dangerous anger. “Who?”
Shinri demanded.
Nelshenden nodded toward the king’s table and the man sitting at
Elhokar’s right hand. The merchant lord, Meridas.
“Him! ” Shinri sputtered.
“His majesty made that pig a Parshen,” Nelshenden said with a dark tone.
“And gave him a Shardblade. I—”
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 37
