Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
Page 48
The first time he had come to her, she had accepted him—but she hadn’t
known. Never again. If he took her again, she would fight.
She looked up, studying the grim satisfaction in Ahven’s eyes. It had
been a long time since she had felt hatred, and it had never been this strong.
There was only one thing to do. The roads called to her, the outside, the
freedom.
She would escape.
chapter 38
TALN 7
The statue looked nothing like him, of course. It stood about
twelve feet tall, bold and powerful. Its face was indistinct, following
Kanaran artistic traditions, but the body and clothing were magnificently
detailed. An enormous, muscular chest sat atop squat, trunk-like legs. The arms bulged with inhuman strength as they held their massive Shardblade
point-down in front of the body.
Taln shook his head. No human could bear such ridiculous proportions
and oversized muscles—such a man would have trouble walking, let alone
fighting. Of course, that mattered little to the people. They would have
their Heralds, and would design them as they saw fit. Truth rarely measured up to imagination.
He had never grown accustomed to seeing his image—realistic or
not—used as an icon of faith. It was bad enough when the Vorins used
it. These new ‘Elinrah’ temples were even more troubling. Taln had heard
the cromcleaners speak of the so-called ‘new’ Elinrah religions, which
had developed in rural areas during the last few centuries. However, the
Elinrah ideas—focusing on mysticized worship of the Heralds—were
not really all that new at all. They were just a continuation of mankind’s millennia-old heresy. Nearly every Epoch, the Heralds had been forced to
reiterate their primary teaching: the Almighty was to be worshipped; the
Elin were not.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 345
Taln sighed, turning away from the temple. Perhaps there would be time
to correct the Heresy of Kanar later. He bowed his head and walked away
from the city of Ral Eram, moving toward the steep, stone rampway that
led to the upper plateau and the palace.
And so I retreat, Taln thought. And leave them to their doom. It was a bitter realization. Ral Eram, the First Capital, had always been a place of strength. The city had never fallen to the Khothen. Even during the last
two Returns, when the creatures had nearly overwhelmed mankind, Ral
Eram had remained strong. Since its founding five Epochs before, the city
had been a symbol of unity and hope for the people of Roshar.
Unity no longer. Taln shouldered his pack—a simple construction sewn
from the sheet of his bed—and climbed the palace incline. Below him,
the city proper sat on its cliffside ledge, unaware that its Herald had failed.
Over two months had passed since his coming; less than eight remained
until the Khothen returned. Taln had no more time to spend on the once-
great fortress city. He would find allies elsewhere, and with them stand.
If only the others were here, Taln thought with frustration. Jezrien would have persuaded the foolish king and his sister, Sign or no Sign. Nale
would have drawn supporters from the warriors of the city with his sheer
aura of noble efficiency. Chanaral—dear, patient Chanaral—would have
gained the love of the people, and with that love forged an alliance against the darkness to come.
Unfortunately, Ral Eram had been left with Taln instead. A warrior,
true, but one of steel and blood; a conflict of politics and persuasion was far beyond his capabilities. Perhaps, once he located the others, he would be able to bring them back. Perhaps there was time yet for Ral Eram.
If you find the others . . . a voice in his mind whispered.
I will! Taln told himself, swiftly capping his worries, lest the fires come again. I will . . .
A figure met him at the top of the stone ramp. Taln paused, frowning as
he regarded Lhan. Would the monk never give up? Over the last few days,
Lhan had tried incessantly to convince Taln to stay. Taln had been glad
when Jasnah’s messenger had finally come—telling him a time had been
arranged for him to use the Oathgates—if only because it would finally
let him be rid of Lhan’s pestering. Apparently, he had been premature in
that assumption.
“Well?” Taln asked of Lhan.
The monk smiled, stepping aside and revealing a small pack—crafted,
Taln noticed, very similarly to his own. “I’ve decided to go with you.”
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Taln raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t get to choose,” Lhan said happily, picking up his pack. “If
you leave me behind, I’ll just follow you and made a nuisance of myself.”
“You’re needed here,” Taln said, walking past him.
“Oh, I know,” Lhan said, rushing to catch up. “Without me, the monas-
tery floors will have no one to clean them. A tragedy, let me assure you.” He paused, cocking his head to the side. “Of course, if I leave, the monastery seniors will have to replace me. Maybe the cleaning will actually get done once in a while. I guess I’m doing them a favor.”
“You’re not coming with me,” Taln said, walking up the palace steps.
He proffered Lady Jasnah’s admittance note to one of the guards, then
waited as the man carried the note over to the guardhouse so their scribe
could read it.
“You know, Talenel,” Lhan said. “For a man who claims to be horribly
unsettled by the fact that no one believes his message, you seem rather
quick to reject the one follower you’ve managed to recruit.”
Taln eyed the monk. “You don’t believe that I am a Herald.”
Lhan shrugged. “Haven’t made up my mind yet. Perhaps I just need a
little more time.”
Taln snorted. Lhan hid the truth well, but it was very difficult to lie to a man who had lived for three thousand years. Lhan still thought Taln
insane—in fact, Lhan thought him even more insane than he once had.
The monk had that glint in his eye. It was the glint the nobility had shown on that night months ago, when Taln had failed to show the Sign. It was
the glint the warrior monks had shown when Taln infiltrated their training courtyard. It was a glint born of the discomfort, uncertainty, and even fright that came from speaking with a complete madman.
Oddly, it disappointed Taln to see the discomfort in Lhan’s eyes. The
monk had never shown it before. Lhan’s worry was a recent manifestation—
something that had appeared after that night at the duels, when the monk
had finally realized the extent to which Taln was willing to go. Now Lhan
understood. He would never quite be comfortable around Taln again.
But there was truth in Lhan’s words. Taln was in no position to reject
anyone willing to help him. The Khothen were coming, the Knights
Epellion were no more, and his Blade had been stolen. Taln would have to
make use of the tools he had.
“Very well,” Taln said as the guard returned, waving Taln into the palace
and handing back his writ. “You may come, assuming you’re willing to
agree to one condition. You will not sabotage my attempts to persuade the
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 347
other kings of Roshar. You might be convinced of my insanity; let others
make their own decision
. Agreed?”
“Sounds fair,” Lhan said, joining him as they moved through the massive
entry hall, walking toward the Oathgate chamber. The monk wore a simple
grey traveling robe and cloak, his feet shod with leather sandals.
“We’ll have to see about getting you some boots,” Taln said. “We may
need to cut across some stormlands between cities.”
“Boots,” Lhan said with amusement. “I’ve never owned a pair.”
Taln paused. “Never?” he asked.
Lhan shook his head.
Taln frowned. “When was the last time you left the First Capital?”
“Fifteen years ago,” Lhan replied.
Great. “I don’t suppose you ever did any weapons training with the Order of Khonra?”
“Nope,” Lhan said cheerfully. “Never found much use for it.”
Even better, Taln thought with a sigh. “Come on,” he said, walking the final distance to the Oathgate chamber. Two blue-liveried soldiers stood at the entrance, and they quickly moved to block Taln and Lhan. Taln reached
into his cloak pocket, unfolding Jasnah’s writ and proffering it again.
The guard did not take the paper. “The Oathgates are sealed,” the man
said simply.
“I have a—” Taln began.
“No exceptions,” the guard informed.
Taln frowned. “I was told I would be allowed through before King
Elhokar’s sealing took effect.”
The guard did not respond.
Taln sighed, glancing to the side, where Lhan betrayed a hint of nervous-
ness. Mentally, Taln rolled his eyes. The monk obviously worried that
Taln would just attack the soldier out of frustration. Not that Lhan would be worried about the guard; he still assumed Taln to be some deranged
farmer who had stood out during one too many highstorms.
“Go and find Lady Jasnah,” Taln told the guard calmly, much to Lhan’s
obvious relief. “She’ll explain.”
Again, the soldier didn’t reply.
“Well, that’s that,” Lhan said, tugging on Taln’s sleeve. “Guess we’ll have to go back. We can return as soon as Lady Jasnah sorts things out. You
know, this is actually fortunate—I know a couple of men who offered to
let us into a game of chips tonight, if we happened to . . .”
Taln ignored the monk, frowning slightly to himself. His instincts
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twitched nervously. Something was wrong. He glanced to the side, analyz-
ing his surroundings, his body growing taut with anticipation. What had
his subconscious noticed . . . ?
The Oathgate room, Taln thought, looking past the guards. An inordinate number of soldiers were gathered in the room, all in Alethkar blue.
Except . . .
It was faint. Very faint. The scent of blood.
“Yes, Lhan,” Taln said slowly, backing away from the two soldiers. “I
think we will go.”
Lhan actually looked surprised. Taln studied the soldiers as he walked
away. Their uniforms were too perfect. Their hair was Aleth black, but
their temples and fingers were darkened slightly with dye. Behind the two
guards, several squads of soldiers formed up, weapons drawn. One of them
noticed Taln’s study and raised a hand, barking a command to one of his
companions.
“Out of the palace, now! ” Taln said, shoving the monk down the hallway and taking off at a dash.
chapter 39
MERIN 9
“The Sovereign must hold himself to a higher standard than the
citizen. His path is one of poise, of control, and of sobriety. When
his people feast, he must remain watchful for enemies. When his people
sleep, he must remain alert for danger. He must never allow his honor to be compromised, because his actions are the actions of a country. His honor
is their honor. This is Sheneres—to act as normal men wish they could.”
Merin paced in the monastery reading room, its smaller confines well
fitting his agitated mood. The monk, in his simple grey sencoat and tan
trousers, read calmly from The Way of Kings. Though the man undoubtedly noticed Merin’s state, he refrained from making any commentary. He simply
read according to his duty, acting as an unbiased conduit for the ancient text.
Merin would have welcomed a little advice at the moment. Unfortu-
nately, he was becoming accustomed enough to noble propriety to realize
this was not an issue to discuss with a random monastery brother. And so
he paced, hoping Bajerden’s wisdom would stretch through the epochs to
tell Merin what he should do.
“Read that part again,” Merin said, pausing.
“The Sovereign must hold himself accountable to laws that normal men
may ignore,” the monk said dutifully. “It is only by living a higher path
himself that he can ask his people to obey his dictates.”
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Merin nodded, beginning his pacing again as the brother continued
on. As Merin moved, his eye caught sight of the room’s corner, where his
Shardblade sat leaning against the wall, Dalenar’s cloak draped over its hilt.
The Sovereign must hold himself accountable to laws that normal men may ignore. Merin was no sovereign, no king or Parshen. And yet, he was a nobleman. Bajerden’s words were addressed to him.
Merin had assumed he understood. He’d wanted to be a hero, wanted
it so badly. His dreams had been of Shardblades and great acts of courage, his mind stuffed with evening stories told when the day’s harvest was in.
He had been prepared for hardship. The stories always spoke of the
soreness of marching, or that of sleeping on rock. Things were never easy
for the great warriors—their horses died, their friends betrayed them, and they always got caught outside during highstorms.
He had been prepared to be hurt, perhaps to die. The heroes didn’t always
win. Some, like poor Tanath of Kanar, died bravely—but died nonetheless.
Merin continued his pacing. Why hadn’t any of the stories prepared him
for this? What of the guilt that came from doing what you thought was
right, then realizing afterward that you might have been wrong?
What was the right answer?
He had let Aredor go. A braver man would have gone with his friend,
joining him in a just—but unpopular—cause. A more honorable man
would have sent word to Lord Dalenar, warning of the heir’s flight. Perhaps if Merin had done that, the riders sent to chase Aredor down would have
been successful. Yet, faced with these two options, Merin had done nothing.
He hadn’t gone with Aredor, and he hadn’t informed Lord Dalenar.
His inaction made him feel . . . nonexistent. The world continued as if
Merin weren’t involved. But, wasn’t that a good thing? Who was he to
interfere with the workings of great men?
The Sovereign must hold himself accountable to laws that normal men may ignore.
That was the problem. Faced with two choices—both honorable in their
own light—Merin had done nothing. But, he thought with frustration, what could I have done? Sent messengers to Lord Dalenar, thereby betraying Aredor?
Left to try and protect Aredor, thereby breaking my oaths to Lord Dalenar?
Honor was supposed to be absolute. Of this single fact, the stories were
firm. There was good and there was evil. Was Merin flawed because he
couldn’t tell the two apart? He wasn’t really a nobleman
, after all. He was just a peasant with a Shardblade. He couldn’t help thinking that a better
man in his same position would have instinctively known what to do.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 351
They did. Dalenar and Aredor. They both knew their courses—and they chose opposite paths. But they’re both good men!
Could a good man choose a dishonorable action?
The monk had stopped reading. Merin paused, looking up. They must
have reached the end of the fourth section of The Way of Kings already.
“You may go,” Merin said. He’d kept the man far too long already, and
Bajerden’s words didn’t seem like they were helping all that much. Merin
had gone through the entire book nearly a tenset times during the last
week, and he was no closer to a solution.
Merin sighed, gathering up his Blade and throwing on his cloak. Out-
side, the hallways of Gloryhome monastery were broad, almost daunting.
Great archways covered massive and intricate glyphrenderings, constructed
with silvers, golds, and gemstones so that they glistened in the sunlight.
Merin passed near one, his form blocking the window’s light and throwing
a shadow over the majestic wall inlay. It was designed vaguely in the shape of the Double Eye, but it was crafted from what looked to be hundreds—
maybe even thousands—of glyphs. He ran his eyes along the patterns,
looking for forms he recognized. There were a few familiar glyphs, but not the one he sought.
He suspected he would never again see his phantom glyph, the strange
carving that had granted him such power. The stories and old gaffers often spoke of mystical glyphwards, imbued with power. They were always ancient
and rare things, like in the tale of the Tenth Dawn, with its pig-herding hero.
Merin had found such a glyph of power, but had wasted its energies in
one furious moment. He could still feel the winds charging down the palace hallway, screaming in his ears, obeying his desperate plea. Such strength . . .
If only he could remember the exact construction of the glyph. Perhaps
he could recreate its power, if only in some small way. But his attempts so far had been laughable—and he dare not show them to anyone else, for
they smacked too closely of writing.
Merin shook his head. Such powers were for Awakeners and mystics—it