said. “Nanavah doesn’t just want to kill my brother, she wants to blame it on Jezenrosh.”
“And the assassins have rooms in the Aleth section of the palace,”
Nelshenden whispered, “a few doors down from those of the king himself.”
chapter 31
MERIN 7
Merin relaxed in one of the sitting rooms across the hallway from
the feast hall. The room was warm and pleasant, lightly decorated
in dark woods with a thick rug on the floor. He held a cup of rainwater
sweetened with roshtree juice, his Dalenar-proscribed allotment of wine
long since imbibed.
Renarin sat next to him. The young man had been acting strange, even for
Renarin, ever since Aredor’s fight with Meridas. Renarin still held his first cup of wine—but, instead of drinking it, he sat staring into the flagon’s depths.
Aredor seemed far less disturbed by the confrontation. He stood by the
room’s hearth, speaking quietly with several men from Teth Kanar, a Third
City set at the Point of the Sea of Chomar. Winning the Shardbearer’s
competition had lightened Aredor’s mood, not to mention redeemed him
in the eyes of the other court members.
Merin sighed, enjoying the peace. Merin had watched some thirty
Shardbearer duels, and the quick motions, the cheering onlookers, and the
clang of metal against metal had brought on a slight headache. Fortunately, as the evening had progressed, the court’s men had lost much of their
rowdiness. Those who wanted to get drunk did so, and the rest of them
had trickled off to one of the sitting rooms.
The competition’s eventual winner was a young man who stood speak-
ing with King Elhokar on the far side of the room. Merin thought he
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recognized the man from the Pralir battlefield, but had never spoken with
him. Aredor had identified him as the fourth son of an Eighth Lord, which
made his victory all the more triumphant—it was unlikely he would have
ever managed to get a Blade elsewhere. The young man stood with a look
of disbelief on his face, one that Merin could heartily understand.
Eventually, Elhokar disengaged himself from the lucky Shardbearer. He
strode from the room, bidding goodnight to several lords as he passed. The king probably had the right idea—Merin had no idea what hour of night it
was, but it was probably well time they returned to Kholinar. Unfortunately, his chair was far too comfortable to abandon at the moment. He leaned
back, closing his eyes and sighing in contentment.
Merin felt it, even with his eyes closed. He couldn’t see the air change
when the pendant somehow touched his skin, getting past his undershirt,
but he could still feel it. He could sense the wind outside the building, the winds far away, calling to him. He felt . . . a burst of strength, a sudden awakening of soul and being. Nothing was ever dull within the embrace
of the glyphward. Nothing was ever lethargic, depressed, or listless when
he could feel the wind.
And yet, he forced himself to reach up and pull the pendant away from
his neck, tucking it back into position between shirt and underclothing.
He hadn’t been able to make himself take it off, not with the power and
vivaciousness it seemed to lend. However, he still didn’t trust it. His mother told stories of the whispering highstorms, and of the curses they could
bring. Someday, he would get rid of the pendant. Just not today.
Merin settled back into his chair, but the relaxation was tainted now that he had been reminded of the greater strength he was missing.
“I don’t like this,” Renarin mumbled from beside him.
Merin raised an eyebrow. “What is wrong with you tonight, anyway?”
Renarin looked up from his wine. “What do you mean?”
“Meridas tricked your brother and made a fool of him,” Merin said.
“That’s not going to change, but Aredor did redeem himself. You don’t
have to focus on it so much.”
“I haven’t been thinking about Meridas,” Renarin said, looking back
down at his wine. “I’m worried about Aredor.”
“He seems to be fine,” Merin said. From the pieces of conversation Merin
had heard, Aredor was deeply engaged in an attempt to get a particular
seasilk caravan to pass through Kholinar. Lord Dalenar and Lady Kinae
had retired back through the Oathgates a few hours before, leaving Aredor
to handle the evening’s financial discussions.
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“He’s been shooting glances toward those two men all night,” Renarin said.
Merin frowned. “Which two men?”
Renarin nodded at two noblemen who stood by the far wall, drinks held
in their hands but not touching their lips. Merin recognized them—they
were the two Shardbearers from Crossguard, the men Jezenrosh had sent.
The younger one wore a dark expression—he was the one who had been
embarrassed so soundly earlier in the evening, when Elhokar had demanded
to know why Jezenrosh had not come to the dueling competition.
“Why would Aredor care about those two?” Merin asked.
“I don’t know,” Renarin replied. “But he does. I can see it. Aredor fol-
lowed them here, to this room. He keeps standing alone, as if waiting for
someone to approach him—however, it’s never those two. Not yet.”
Merin shook his head, leaning back and closing his eyes. “The palace
guards are right, Renarin. You’re a strange, strange man.”
“Am I?” Renarin asked. “Look.”
Merin forced his eyes open. Aredor stood distracted from his con-
versation, obviously paying little attention to his two companions, who
were now speaking to one another. His eyes watched Jezenrosh’s two
Shardbearers—who were leaving the room with a quick gait.
Merin raised an eyebrow as Aredor bid farewell to the men from Teth
Kanar, then strolled nonchalantly over toward Merin and Renarin. “I’m
going to go stretch my legs for a moment,” he said. “Wait for me here—I’ll be back shortly.” He didn’t even wait for a reply before following the two Shardbearers from the room.
Merin glanced toward Renarin.
“Follow him?” Renarin asked.
“Definitely,” Merin replied, picking up his Shardblade and jumping
from the chair.
The two of them ducked out into the hallway. A doorway just opposite
them led to the feast hall, with its food-littered tables and occasional
drunken slumberer. The hallway lamps were lit, and it was easy to see
Aredor to the right, moving quickly down the passageway as he caught up
to the two Shardbearers and walked in step beside them.
“What are those three planning?” Merin asked with a frown, sneaking
out behind them.
Aredor’s trio stopped, and Merin pulled Renarin aside into a pillar al-
cove. He peeked around the corner to see Aredor speaking quietly with the
two others, his face frustrated. A few moments later, the two Shardbearers stalked away, leaving Aredor alone in the corridor.
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“Come on,” Renarin said, slipping out of Merin’s grasp and scurrying
toward his brother.
Merin flushed as Aredor turned and saw them, then waved for them to
stay where they were. He approached, a deep frown on his f
ace, his eyes
still turned toward the men disappearing in the distance.
“Aredor, what’s going on?” Merin asked.
“Those men were supposed to bring me a message from Jezenrosh,”
Aredor said.
“About what?” Merin asked.
“It’s not important,” Aredor said with a distracted wave of his hand. “They said they didn’t know what I was talking about, even though Jezenrosh
promised to give me a reply. I find it hard to believe that he would forget . . .”
“Aredor,” Renarin said urgently. “The king left the room right before
those men.”
“You think he might be meeting with them?” Aredor asked.
“No,” Renarin said. “Those two didn’t drink all night, and they didn’t
mingle. They took part in the Shardbearers’ competition, but they were both eliminated early. They fought very carefully in the first few rounds, and
appeared very skilled, but then were defeated through simple mistakes—as
if they wanted to progress far enough not to stand out, but also didn’t want to draw attention by doing too well.”
Aredor mulled over his brother’s words. “Come on,” he finally said.
Aredor led them forward, through the maze of interconnecting hallways
that crossed the ten wings of the First Palace. Aredor took a different
route than the Shardbearers had, but he moved quickly, leading Merin and
Renarin in a quick half-jog that looped them back toward the royal quarters.
The hallways here were dark. Lanterns burned on their wall brackets,
but there were no chandeliers, and only every other lantern was lit to save oil. Merin stopped beside Aredor, puffing slightly from their dash and the excitement of the moment. The hallway was silent. Aredor paused for a
moment, then moved as if to start again.
Renarin, however, held up a hand, head cocked to the side. A few mo-
ments later, Merin heard it too. Footsteps—loud, clinking footsteps, as if . . .
The two Shardbearers rounded an intersection just ahead, now clad in
Shardplate. They had been joined by about ten men in simple, dark clothing, all of whom were armed with maces or clubs. The two Shardbearers stopped
with a clink when they saw Aredor. One of them wore dark grey and gold; the second was the green warrior with the thin blade Merin had watched duel.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 293
“Did Jezenrosh put you up to this?” Aredor asked, his voice ringing in
the empty stone hallway. “Or did you decide to do it on your own?”
The Shardbearers did not respond. Their group of common warriors
stood hesitantly behind them.
“Killing the king will do you no good,” Aredor said. “My father will
never stand for it. I warned Jezenrosh not to be absent from the night’s
festivities—I warned him that he might lose his title. Elhokar might be a
fool, but greater is the fool who heedlessly provokes him.”
The older of the two Shardbearers motioned to his solders with a quick
gesture, and they split, each group heading down a different hallway behind him. They could easily reach the king’s quarters by a more roundabout
method. The Shardbearers said not a word, stepping forward, long lines of
smoke forming from their hands.
“Merin, Renarin, go and warn the king’s guard,” Aredor said, eyes fixed
on the two Shardbearers as he summoned his own Blade.
Merin paused. Jezenrosh’s Shardbearers walked forward with forebod-
ing steps. These men would not follow Protocol—not when assassinating
the king was their night’s task. Merin felt an itch of fear regarding their gleaming Shardplate, remembering how much of a difference it had made
in the night’s duels.
With scrambling fingers, Merin pulled out his belt knife and cut the
strings holding the metal sheath over his blade. The sheath clanged to
the stone floor, releasing the Blade from its grip. Suddenly, the weapon felt balanced, even alive, in Merin’s hands. Its hilt wasn’t completely straight, but formed so that his grip locked perfectly into place, as if it were another set of hands clasping with his own.
Merin stepped forward, standing in a dueling stance beside his friend.
Aredor smiled, though his eyes were reserved.
“Renarin, go,” Aredor said. “To the king’s chambers first, then to the
royal guard houses if you have time.”
“But—” Renarin said, voice worried.
“Go!” Aredor snapped.
Ten heartbeats passed, three Shardblades formed. Renarin paused only
a moment longer, then took off at a dash.
“I saw their duels,” Aredor said in a low voice, releasing the clasp on his cloak and nodding for Merin to do likewise. “The older one is the better of the two. I’ll take him, you take the younger one. Fight defensively—if we
can hold them long enough, others will come.”
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Merin nodded, sweat tickling the side of his face, hands clammy as they
gripped his Blade.
The two Shardbearers attacked in tandem. Breaking Protocol instantly,
they both pressed toward Merin, obviously trying to defeat the weaker
of their two opponents first. Aredor wouldn’t let them. He charged the
older man—the one in green—swinging his Blade and forcing the man
to engage him.
The second assassin swung at Merin. The man’s Blade was long and
straight, its length bearing designs that made it appear to be a series
of stacked triangles. Merin ducked with a quick motion, Vasher’s training
prompting him to action without thought. His opponent’s weapon sheared
through the corridor wall behind him, leaving a long scar in the stone.
Merin came out of his duck and fell immediately into Vasher’s stance.
He struck while his opponent was still off-balance, but the man deflected
the strike with the base of his sword, pushing Merin backward with a heave of Plate-enhanced muscles.
Merin stumbled with a grunt, barely staying upright. The Shardbearer
struck with three sweeping blows, stepping forward with each one, forcing
Merin to hop repeatedly backward. The final maladroit jump was too much,
and Merin lost his footing, tripping and tumbling to the ground.
The Shardbearer dove for the kill, but a sudden blow from behind struck
the man’s back, drawing his attention. Merin’s opponent turned in surprise as Aredor skidded past, then stopped in front of Merin.
Both opponents pressed their advantage, but Aredor faced them both,
deflecting blow after blow. Merin shook his head, dispelling his dizziness as Aredor fought and somehow stood against two Shardbearers at the same
time. Merin could see Aredor sweating from the exertion, however, and
could see the man’s arms quiver after parrying each of the Plate-enhanced
strikes. He was barely staying ahead of their attacks, deflecting Blades at the last moment, teetering on the edge of being overwhelmed.
Merin jumped to his feet, throwing himself back into the contest. Aredor
stepped to the side, allowing Merin to face the younger Shardbearer again, and the two duels separated—this time, Merin’s opponent was careful to
place his back to the open hallway. As he turned, Merin could see a long
scar in the man’s Shardplate where Aredor had struck him.
Merin tried to remain calm, focused on his stance, letting training
dictate his swings. Yet, it was impossible not to notice his own deficiency.
V
asher had been right—he wasn’t ready for dueling. He fought as best he
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could, but his opponent seemed to anticipate his moves. Merin knew only
a couple of basic strikes, and the lack of variety made him predictable. He could not win this fight.
Not fairly, at least. Use every advantage you have, Vasher had said.
Merin clenched his jaw as his opponent swung again, using the same
sweeping three-strike attack he had used before. This time, Merin jumped
backward, not trying to parry, only trying to give himself a second of free time. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out the glyphward and
dropping it around his skin.
The air’s movements manifest to him, and the wind’s voice whispered to
his mind. Unfortunately, he wasn’t certain what good that would do. He
had used the glyphward in combat several times, but it had never been as
effective as it had been that first day. He could see the air, and could see men breathe, but that gave him little aid other than hinting at when an
attack would come.
Still, slight though it was, it gave him an advantage. He watched his
opponent’s breath, using it to judge the man’s strikes. Each time the man
inhaled, Merin jumped backward, getting out of sword-range. The assassin
attacked with increasing frustration, trying to catch Merin. The man’s
Shardblade cut slice after slice in the hallway’s walls, shearing lanterns from their perches, but never landing a blow.
“Coward,” the man hissed, swinging again. Merin ducked away, glancing
behind him, checking on Aredor. His friend appeared to have adopted
a similar tactic, staying out of range, trying to tempt his opponent into
over-extending himself. They couldn’t afford a quick battle—Jezenrosh’s
Shardbearers would overpower them.
Unfortunately, the assassin’s Plate also lent them greater endurance.
The battle had only lasted a few minutes, but Merin could already feel
his reactions slowing. He was puffing from the exertion and the constant
dodging, his arms pained from the occasional blow he had to block.
The final attack came as a wave. Merin’s enemy plunged suddenly forward,
giving little hint of the offense, even through breath. He closed on Merin, swinging repeatedly, forcing Merin to fight rather than dodge. The assassin didn’t pause, keeping Merin off-balance. The offense pushed Merin backward, toward Aredor. Merin managed to block each of the blows until the
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