Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

  lush carpets, fine wardrobe, and lavish meals, Shinri found she could

  almost ignore the armed guards outside her door.

  She had little success in guessing the identity of her captors. Though

  the options were limited, so was her information. The most obvious choice

  was her own cousin, Talshekh Davar. He supposedly had an army camped

  just outside Veden City, and simple logic concluded that he probably held

  the throne as well.

  However, there was one great flaw in that supposition—as far as she

  knew, Talshekh had no reason for wishing her captured. The other Houses

  made far more likely culprits, for any of them might think to use her for

  her lineage—imprisoning her in some desperate attempt to gain leverage

  over Talshekh. If that were the case, however, her captors had made a grave mistake. Shinri had only met Talshekh twice, and both times he had given

  her little notice. She was a distant cousin; he would not be warded off by her imprisonment, especially since his goal was the throne itself.

  Yet the days of her captivity passed without either threat or release.

  If House Vedenel held her, it did not try and use her in a bargain. And if Talshekh did have an army outside the city, it did not attack. She cursed her tiny, slit-like windows—though the palace was on a hill, it was only a single story, and the city walls blocked most of her view. Peer as she might, she

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  couldn’t make out the glyphs on the cloaks of the wall-top guardsmen.

  She only knew that they were white—which meant that one of the Three

  Houses, at least, held the city.

  There was, of course, a third option. Tethren had tried to kill King

  Elhokar. House Rienar obviously had plots of its own. She couldn’t imagine what sequence of events could have given them control of Veden City, let

  alone allowed them to stave off Talshekh’s armies, but she couldn’t discount the possibility that she was in their hands.

  In fact, she couldn’t discount much of anything. She spent her three days

  of imprisonment in apprehensive self-debate. As the hours trickled past,

  she grew increasingly anxious. The pain of ignorance was even more potent

  than her anger at being held captive. Just when she thought she would burst from frustration, she finally received a visit from her captor.

  It was not someone she had even bothered consider. “Father?” she asked

  with surprise as the man walked in.

  Ilhadal Davar was a stern, well-groomed man of short stature. He had

  been past his prime in Shinri’s youth, and the years had only made his aging more evident. Like most Veden noblemen, he thought himself a soldier,

  but he bore none of the pragmatism that usually came with the profession.

  Ever worried about what others thought of him, Ilhadal was a man with

  too little imagination to support his potent ambition. Still, Shinri hadn’t thought he would keep his own daughter captive.

  Perhaps he’s somehow earned passage, Shinri thought optimistically, and he’s come simply because he was worried about me. Not that he ever has worried about me before . . .

  Ilhadal gave her one of his characteristically unsympathetic glances. If

  there was any measure of concern in his eyes, she couldn’t find it.

  “Sit,” he said, pointing to a stool.

  Shinri did as commanded, waiting to play her hand until she had more

  information.

  Ilhadal raised an eyebrow, as if surprised to see her following orders. He strode forward, broad white cloak set with the thick, mane-like collar that her people preferred. He walked a full circle around the stool, studying her and rubbing his bearded chin.

  “The Kholin woman does good work,” he finally said. “I half-expected

  you to throw a tantrum when I walked in, no matter what my informants

  told me about your progress.”

  Shinri raised her chin, staring her father in the face. “Lady Jasnah is a woman of impeccable composure, father. I have learned much under her guidance.”

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 317

  Ilhadal grunted. He did not sit, but remained standing, arms folded,

  regarding her with the eye of a tradesman at market. Why would he keep me in here? Shinri thought, furiously trying to put her aforementioned learning to use. He obviously has some measure of authority in the palace. The guards treated him respectfully as they let him in. His blood ties to Talshekh are as weak as mine, but perhaps he has managed to make himself an advisor to the man.

  That doesn’t explain why either would give orders for me to be kept under guard.

  Why would he lock her up? Two conclusions came to mind—either he

  expected her to try and escape the city, or he expected others to try and get to her. The first was possible—he obviously still regarded her somewhat as the impetuous child of her youth. The second didn’t seem very likely at all.

  Even considering her wardship, she was no one of any great import.

  “You know,” he said, “I blessed the Almighty when the House leaders

  asked me if I would give you to Alethkar as part of the treaty. Until that moment, I had been convinced that you would never be of any good to me.

  Yet, because of the treaty, I could be rid of you and serve the House at the same time.” He paused, eyeing her. “Never in all my imaginations did I

  think that I might get yet another chance to use you.”

  Shinri frowned.

  “Your wardship is over,” Ilhadal said, turning toward the door. “Your

  stepmother has exercised her Right of Decision. Attendants will be sent

  to prepare you for the ceremony.”

  Only years of training beneath Jasnah let Shinri shake off her shock

  quickly enough to speak before he left. Who, Shinri. You have to find out who!

  “Talshekh?” she guessed. He was unmarried now—the death of his wife

  had been part of what set off his determination to take the throne.

  Ilhadal paused, then smiled, shaking his head. “No, Shinri,” he said, as

  if slightly confused himself. “Talshekh is dead. I lead House Davar now.”

  “You? ” Shinri asked. “But, you were fourteenth in line for the House title!”

  “I know,” he said. “There have been . . . many casualties recently.”

  Shinri studied him, quelling her horror. Her father had always been

  an ambitious man, but not that kind of ambitious. He was the pandering courtier, the lesser nobleman who thrived on the barest bit of recognition from his superiors. He was mildly clever, true, but he was not a plotter or an . . . assassin. Or, at least, he hadn’t been.

  “I see it in your eyes, Shinri,” he said from near the doorway. “I see it in everyone’s eyes. Facts have made the truth irrelevant, it appears. Regardless of the means, I was placed in the difficult position of thinking I must kill my king in order to serve my country. Fortunately, another option presented

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  itself. I can only hope that history will judge me for what I have done, and not for what others assume was my hand.”

  Another option presented itself. It took Shinri only a few moments to work out the answer. “Him?” she asked with shock. “I’m to be married to the

  Idiot King?”

  Ilhadal nodded. “Not so much an idiot any longer, it seems—perhaps

  never one at all. The king has undergone something of a transformation;

  the common people are already convinced it was the Almighty’s work. The

  nobility are more skeptical, but I suppose we always are.”

  The Idiot King. For so long she had assumed herself for no one but

  Tethren; she hadn’t rea
lly considered what his death meant for her future.

  Of course she would have to be married to another—a woman’s power came

  from her husband’s rank. Even if her father hadn’t become First Prince of

  House Davar, her fostering to Lady Jasnah would have made her a prized

  marriage.

  But, Ahven Vedenel? Her father’s words about a ‘transformation’ made no

  sense. Had someone trained Ahven to act less foolish? But, even if that were so, he would still have the mind of child. What kind of marriage was that?

  Jasnah’s training whispered that it was a very good one. Shinri would be

  one of the most powerful women in Jah Keved. Her father the Prince of one

  house, her husband the Prince of another and king of all three. Ahven’s

  mental weakness would be a small problem, one she could use to her advan-

  tage. She would have a great deal of freedom—and even power, assuming

  she could gain some measure of control over him.

  The Shinri side of her, however—the piece that Jasnah hadn’t ever been

  able to train away—wanted to scream in horror at the idea. She glanced

  around covertly for something to break or unravel, eventually choosing a

  nearby plant from which she could pluck a few leaves.

  “When?” Shinri asked, crumpling a crisp leaf in her hand, feeling the

  sap wet her palm.

  “Soon,” her father promised, knocking for the guards to open her door.

  “Wait!” she said, standing. “Can I at least leave? Why must you keep me

  here like a prisoner? What do you fear, father?”

  He glanced back at her, then stepped out and waved for the guards to

  shut the door.

  chapter 36

  MERIN 8

  Merin splashed a cupful of water on his face, sighing in pleasure

  as the cool liquid washed away the sweat and fatigue of a day spent

  sparring.

  Around him, the Shieldhome monastery grounds bustled with unusual

  activity. Kholinar wasn’t at war, not yet, but Lord Dalenar’s pronounced

  neutrality—and the subsequent sealing of the Oathgate—felt like a bad sign.

  Citizens and lords alike came to Shieldhome to work out frustrations, and

  perhaps to prepare. Just in case.

  Merin was beginning to learn that the world of a nobleman was far more

  morally ambiguous than he had presumed. The ballads spoke of right and

  wrong, and they always warned their audience which side to believe in.

  Even when a figure was portrayed as both evil and heroic—such as Jarnah

  the Tyrant—there was always a separation of actions from character. To be-

  come a Conqueror was bad. However, fighting with honor and bravery—as

  Jarnah always had—was good.

  Those ideals seemed frail when compared with Alethkar’s current situ-

  ation. Assassination was an evil act—not to mention unheroic. But what

  if those assassins had been sent to stop a man who was planning tyranny

  himself? Many whispered that King Elhokar, who had turned back from

  Prallah reluctantly, had been planning now to invade Jah Keved. The rumors said this was why the king hadn’t dismissed his armies, and why he was so

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  quick to react against Jezenrosh’s offense. Surely planning an invasion of the south—a land held to be one of Alethkar’s truest allies—was a dishonorable act. If Jezenrosh knew of this and tried to stop it, was he justified in using assassins against his own king?

  Merin could tell he wasn’t the only one worried about this dichotomy.

  The people wanted an answer. The biggest problem in Kholinar wasn’t the

  fact that their countrymen were at war. The real problem was that Lord

  Dalenar—the most revered man in all of Alethkar—refused to tell his

  people which side was right.

  It left men wondering and whispering. Perhaps Lord Dalenar didn’t know

  what was right either. That possibility scared them more than anything else.

  “Don’t think so hard, kid,” Chadrin said. “You’re giving me a headache.”

  Merin smiled at the aging monk. After Merin’s battle during the assassi-

  nation attempt, something had changed between Merin and Vasher’s little

  band of monks. Instead of just regarding Merin as Vasher’s apprentice, the eight men had begun to accept him as one of their own. Though Vasher

  was still Merin’s trainer, the others had begun to joke and spar with Merin, and they generally seemed to regard him with the fondness one gave a little brother or junior teammember.

  “Chadrin,” Merin asked, “who do you think’s right? Jezenrosh or the

  king?”

  The elder warrior shrugged. “Haven’t met either one.”

  “You don’t have to meet them to know if they’re right or not,” Merin

  prodded.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Chadrin replied with a wide, gap-toothed smile.

  “Whether or not a fellow’s right often depends on how much I like ’im.”

  Tadr, a leaner man whose only remaining hairs were completely grey,

  snorted. “I guess the wenches are always right then, eh, Chadrin? You seem to like them more than you like anyone.”

  “Wouldn’t know any more,” Chadrin said, raising a cup to his lips and

  obscuring his face. “Monks don’t do things like visit the wenches. Wouldn’t be proper of ’em.”

  Tadr snorted his response to that comment.

  “No,” Merin complained. “What do you really think? About the king’s

  war, I mean.”

  “Such things aren’t meant for discussing by you, little spearman,” Vasher

  said from a short distance away. “And even less meant for us. Lord Dalenar is a wise man. If he says that it isn’t for us to choose sides, then we won’t choose sides. Personally, I doubt either one of them are right.”

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 321

  “So, was what I did in the palace wrong?” Merin asked, turning toward

  his trainer. “Should I have let the assassins pass?”

  “No, boy,” Vasher said. “What you did was right—even if you did go

  against my command that you refrain from sparring.”

  “But, I didn’t spar. I—”

  “Oh, he knows,” Chadrin said with a laugh. “He’s just gettin’ on ya, kid.”

  Merin caught a hint of a smile in Vasher’s eyes. “What you did was right,”

  Vasher repeated. “You saved your king’s life. It isn’t your place to decide if that life was worthy of saving or not—though it is Lord Dalenar’s place to decide whether or not his armies will act against Jezenrosh.”

  Merin nodded.

  “Now, how is that shoulder?” Vasher asked.

  Merin rolled his arm. “The bruise is almost gone now,” he said.

  “You’re lucky,” Vasher said. “He must not have hit you square on—a

  punch like that from a man in Plate should have broken a few bones.”

  Merin nodded, rubbing his arm. The motion only reminded him of his

  other wound, however—the one that he hadn’t told anyone about. Though

  he had felt the glyphward burn in his palm as if it were molten, it had left no mark. His hand had been numb for three days following the assassination

  attempt, but feeling had slowly returned. Now, he could feel no remnant

  of either pain or numbness.

  No one knew what to make of the torn tapestries and rugs. Aredor had

  been dazed following the battle, and didn’t seem to remember the storm

  that had blown through the hallway. Jezenrosh’s Shardbearers were dead,

  and no
one else had seen the winds.

  And so, Merin had remained quiet about the event, pleading confusion

  as to what had brought so much dust into the hallway. He tried to ignore

  the hollow sensation he felt now that the glyphward was gone. Its power

  had been expended, the magic locked within its stone gone. It was best to

  move on.

  “Hey, Vasher,” Chadrin said. “The kid’s getting pretty good, eh? Bet you

  didn’t expect him to be able to take down a Shardbearer in Plate like that.”

  Merin blushed. “That was mostly Aredor,” he said. “I was so useless in

  the fight it’s a wonder I didn’t cut off my own leg.”

  Several of the men laughed at this, but Chadrin wasn’t finished. “You

  should teach ’im how to skep, Vasher,” the burly warrior said. “He’s probably ready.”

  “Hey, that’s a good idea,” one of the other men—Daniv—said. Several

  of the others nodded their approval.

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  Vasher glared at the group of monks. “He’s not ready,” he said. “The boy

  hasn’t even bonded his Blade yet. He can’t skep until then anyway.”

  “We might not have much more time to train him, Vasher,” Tadr said,

  shaking his head. “Great things are happening outside our little monastic

  island. How long will it be before some lord decides to drag the boy away

  to war? The Shardbearers he duels on the battlefield won’t care if he’s ready or not. You should at least train him to defend himself.”

  Vasher continued his glare.

  “He really is ready, Vasher,” Daniv put in. “You’ve heard Lord Aredor

  praise the boy’s dueling skill. He’s twice as good as any of us were at his age—and he hasn’t even had that Blade a hundred days yet.”

  Vasher grunted, studying Merin. Merin was uncertain what they were

  talking about—but he was equally certain that whatever it was, he wanted

  to learn it. “Yeah, Vasher,” he joined in. “At least teach the boy how to

  defend himself.”

  Vasher snorted with a slight smile, then nodded toward the other side of

  the courtyard where a large group of noblemen were sparring in the sand.

  “See the Shardbearer in blue?” Vasher asked, pointing out a younger

  man in bright blue Shardplate. “Put on your Plate and go challenge him