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Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

Page 41

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


  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.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 291

  “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.

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  “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

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 295

  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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