forward. He stood slightly, bending over the table and watching the old
seer’s work.
The old man eyed Renarin with annoyance. “Next disk,” he said testily.
“Jez,” Merin said, after turning it over.
“Hmm,” the old man said, scribbling. “I see . . . a difficult passage of
time for House Kholin. I see divisions and storms, and . . . and would you sit back down!”
Renarin didn’t respond. He stood with his face pressed nearly to the
table, eyes scrambling across the old man’s numeric equations. “This is
wrong,” Renarin whispered. “You leave holes . . . such big holes, and you
wander like a man lost, or one who cannot see.”
“Cannot see?” the old man demanded, swatting ineffectually at Renarin.
“I’ve been a seer for six decades! Numerology takes time, practice, and age.
What do you know of it!”
Renarin ignored him. “But . . . I can’t see either,” he said. “You write the questions even more crudely than I, and you have no answers. You . . .”
He trailed off, glancing upward—toward the old man’s left hand, and the
sphere clutched therein.
Both hands moved at once. Renarin, however, was far more spry. Moving
with a dexterity Merin would have envied in the dueling ring, Renarin
snatched the onyx sphere from the old man’s hand.
“This is insufferable!” the old man said, swatting Renarin repeatedly
with the empty sack. Renarin took the opportunity to grab the man’s
discarded charcoal stick. The old seer hissed indignantly and stood. “My
pride is offended. You tempt both winds and even the Almighty’s Heralds
themselves! May the Answerer himself bring you ruin!” He ignored his
grandson’s pleas, waving the young man away and beginning to hobble
away from the table. He paused, however, then turned back and grabbed
Merin’s sapphire. Then he huffed one last time and lurched his way from the
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 359
room. Kamp followed with a worried look, shooting a bow back at Merin
and Renarin before disappearing after the old man.
“Well, that was brilliant,” Merin snapped. “It would help sometimes,
Renarin, if you would try to be a little less strange. You even scared away an Elinrah priest!”
“Hush,” Renarin said, eyes still on the table. He began to scribble on the paper, sweeping the wooden chips out of his way with a dismissive gesture.
The disks flew from the table, knocking a candle to the floor and spraying wax across the dark blue stone.
“Renarin?” Merin asked, standing and frowning slightly at the intensity
in his friend’s eyes.
Renarin ignored him, scribbling a few more numbers. He paused,
looking down at the onyx in his hand, eyes awed. Then he turned back to
the numbers.
“By the winds . . .” Renarin whispered, almost as if in a trance. “He’s
going to die, Merin. Aredor. He’s . . . going to die.”
“What?” Merin asked. “Renarin, you can’t know that.”
“I see it, Merin,” said the younger Kholin. “It’s here. Finally, I can see.
Aredor is going to die fighting the king. Jezenrosh will lose. If only father had stopped him . . . but Aredor went the other way. North, not east.
By river, not by land.” Renarin paused, then looked up at Merin, eyes
mournful. “He’s doomed. My brother is doomed.”
Merin shivered. “Renarin, I . . .” He trailed off as a group of priests in blue robes appeared at the door, their expressions agitated.
“My lords,” one of them asserted. “Perhaps it would be best if you left
now.”
Renarin’s head snapped up. Sweat streamed down his brow, and he stared
at the men with a disturbing frenzy. He began to shake slightly, like a man about to have a fit.
“Yes, we should leave,” Merin said quickly. So much for the augury, he thought, regarding Renarin with worry. “Come on, Renarin.”
Renarin held up the onyx sphere. “How much for the stone?” he de-
manded.
“My lord?” the stocky priest asked.
“What do you want for it?” Renarin asked. “What does it cost.”
“My lord, the stone of a seer is—”
The man stopped as Renarin pulled out his cloak pouch and spread its
contents across the table. Three tenset coins glistened beneath the four
remaining candles, an array of colors rubicon, hyacinthine, and azure.
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“That will be enough,” the priest said, eyes wide.
“Enough, also, to forgive the incident this day?” Merin said, pushing
Renarin from the room. “Lord Renarin has been of a strange temperament
recently. The stress of his brother’s disappearance has been great.”
“Of course, my lord,” the priest said, still staring at the table’s riches.
Merin led Renarin from the temple, and the bright light seemed to
restore a bit of his friend’s sanity. Renarin blinked, shading his eyes from the sun, the onyx sphere still clutched in his hand. He stood for a moment, then sighed, looking down.
“I’m all right,” he said, noticing Merin’s concerned look.
“Let’s get back to the palace and have something to eat,” Merin said.
Renarin still looked a bit pale, his skin clammy.
Renarin nodded. “I feel so strange.”
“That means a lot, coming from you,” Merin said, trying a wan levity.
Renarin, however, didn’t smile. He shook his head. “I feel it still, Merin.
Aredor is going to die.”
“I worry about him too,” Merin said.
“No, Merin. I know he is going to die.”
Merin eyed his friend, looking for signs of another . . . whatever had
happened before. Renarin looked to be his old self, however—though he
was even more gloomy than normal. He remained that way through the
entire walk back to the palace, though Merin tried to get him to talk about other topics—anything but Aredor.
It didn’t work. And, as they walked, Merin found Renarin’s thoughts
contagious. His uncertainty from before returned, his worries released from their brief captivity. He was no closer to knowing what he should do. He
had still abandoned Aredor, and he had still broken with duty by not telling Lord Dalenar what he knew.
At their rooms again, Merin ordered them a simple meal, hoping the
sustenance would do Renarin some good. The boy quickly found his bal-
cony, however, and stood upon it brooding.
Merin felt little better. I need to make a decision, one way or the other, he realized. It’s the indecision that is destroying me. He felt like Aredor had looked that week before making the decision to leave.
But what decision to make?
What if there’s another answer?
“Renarin,” he said, standing. “What was that you said about Aredor
before? Going north, not east?”
“When he left,” Renarin said idly, “Aredor said no horse would catch
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 361
him—even though he knew that Father had taken all of the fastest horses
with him for the messengers to use. Aredor shouldn’t have been able to
stay ahead, not when Father had all the best stock. Yet he did. Father never found him. That’s because Aredor didn’t take a path anyone expected. He
went north, then took the river east.”
“But the river doesn’t flow strongly enough to carry traffic in the summer,”<
br />
Merin said.
Renarin shook his head. “I saw it, Merin. That’s what he did. I don’t
know how, but he did it.”
Merin opened his mouth to object, but paused. Long ago, just after Merin
had been given his Shardblade, Aredor had told him something about
Renarin. He notices things, Merin. Things regular people just don’t see.
I’ve rarely known him to be wrong.
“We need to go after him, Renarin,” Merin announced.
Renarin looked up. “We can’t,” he said. “My father . . .”
“We have no choice!” Merin said. “Look at us. We can’t stay here, worry-
ing like this. He’s your brother and my friend. We can’t let him die alone.”
Renarin stood quietly.
“We won’t fight, though,” Merin explained, stepping closer and speaking
quietly. “We’ll leave in secret, like Aredor, and follow him. Then, when
we get there, we’ll convince him to come back. We won’t disobey Lord
Dalenar’s command, but we also won’t break Aredor’s trust.”
“We won’t be able to convince him,” Renarin said. “And besides, my
father commanded that no one go to the war at all—we’ll be breaking his
command if we leave without his permission.”
“We’ll break the command, but not the honor of it,” Merin said. “Renarin,
I can’t stay here any more. I have to go—this worrying is driving us both
mad! It will work out. The Almighty will see to that.”
Renarin didn’t look convinced.
“Would you rather stay behind?” Merin asked.
Renarin looked up, then shook his head. “Let’s go, then. Quickly, before
I think about it too much.”
chapter 40
TALN 8
Taln and Lhan crouched in a side chamber, the room lit only by
a window on the far wall. Footsteps, yells, and the sounds of battle
echoed through the palace’s stone hallways.
Lhan’s breathing was quick. “What . . . what’s happening?” the monk
demanded.
“Someone has taken the Oathgates,” Taln said quietly from his position
at the doorway. The outside hallway was empty. Taln turned from the
hallway door and slunk across the room to the window, peeking outside.
“They sent soldiers through to secure the palace.”
He could see a large assemblage of soldiers gathering outside the window,
right at the top of the ramp leading down into the city proper. The men
appeared to be lounging idly, as if waiting for orders, but their postures were slightly forced. They were members of the invading army, sent to make certain no one escaped the palace and warned the people below. Whoever
the invaders were, they worked efficiently. The ramp had been secured
within minutes, and the attack was well-placed. The palace was probably
understaffed with soldiers, most having gone with their various lords to
join King Elhokar in his warmaking.
Well, that way is cut off. There were at least fifty soldiers atop the ramp—far more than he would like to try fighting on his own without a Shardblade.
He probably could have reached the ramp ahead of them, but he’d chosen
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 363
to hide instead—fearing that Lhan wouldn’t be able to keep up. Apparently, that had been a poor decision.
Lhan listened at the doorway a little longer, obviously trying to deter-
mine the validity of Taln’s words. Eventually, the monk joined Taln at the window. “Who could it be?” he asked nervously.
Taln shook his head. “They’re Kanaran,” he said. “Either Veden or
Prallan. Perhaps Jah Keved has attacked, or maybe some remnants from
the conquered Prallan nations are trying to get revenge on your king. Their identity doesn’t matter to us—our job is to get past those soldiers and escape before the city is captured.”
Lhan frowned. “We can’t go. We have to do something!”
“Like what?” Taln said, leaving the window. The western ramp had been
taken, but perhaps he could beat the invaders to the eastern ramp.
“I don’t know,” Lhan admitted. “Don’t you care if the city falls?”
“This city fell centuries ago,” Taln said frankly, glancing out the doorway and making certain the hallway was still clear. He paused, looking back and noting Lhan’s concern. “Look, if you want to help your countrymen, you
have to escape the palace first. Get to the lower city with me, and you can raise the alarm if you wish. It matters not to me.”
Lhan nodded, joining Taln as he crept from the room and began moving
through the palace. He tried to stay to the periphery of the labyrinthine
structure, away from the Oathgates. The invaders would have to bring in
many soldiers quickly, secure the palace, then try and take the city gates by subterfuge. Ral Eram’s people would be accustomed to seeing large groups
of soldiers moving through the streets—King Elhokar’s war preparations
had been steady during the last few weeks.
It was a daring attack, but a clever one. The First Capital was isolated
in its cliffside location. An occupying force could hold the city with ease, assuming it gained control of both city walls and Oathgates.
But how? Taln thought. How did they get through the Oathgate? Elhokar would have been a fool to leave his side open to invasion.
It didn’t matter. True, the bickerings of men were harmful—divisiveness
would lead to destruction when the Khothen came. But, for the moment,
it didn’t matter to Taln who held Ral Eram. One unbelieving kingdom or
another, it was the same.
A sudden gasp from Lhan drew his attention. Taln paused, one hand
against a stone wall as he listened for the sounds of battle. The monk’s face had grown pale, and he was looking down a side passage, toward something
Taln couldn’t see.
364
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“What?” Taln hissed, joining the monk.
He needn’t have asked. Bodies lay scattered through the hallway, blood
pooling on the white marble. They wore the simple clothing of servants,
their bodies hacked and mangled, obviously cut down as they tried to run.
Lhan turned, retching. Taln stood silently, observing the carnage.
“Why?” Lhan finally whispered.
“They need to secure the palace,” Taln said quietly. “Kil ing the occupants is faster, and safer, than trying to capture them. This way no one escapes to raise warning.”
Lhan turned away from the slaughter, slumping with his back against a
wall, shuddering sickly. Taln stared on. The dead stared back.
Oh, Almighty . . . He thought, bowing his head. Sometimes I wonder if they’re worth protecting.
A scream sounded from behind. Lhan glanced up. The scream was close,
just down the hallway.
Taln didn’t turn toward the sound. He looked through the hallway of
corpses, past the death toward a window at the far end. Through it, he could just barely make out the slope of the eastern ramp. It was empty.
I need to go. This fight is not mine. I need to escape, so that I can—
The scream sounded again. Lhan scrambled to his feet, apparently trying
to judge the sound’s location. His hands shook as he scrambled over and
picked up a discarded length of wood one of the dead peasants had tried
to use as a weapon.
Lhan paused, looking down at his weapon. The scream sounded again,
and he looked up. His posture was nervous, his hands quiv
ering. Then
he struck off down the hallway toward the sound.
Lhan would fight. Even though the monk had never held a weapon, he
would fight and die to protect the one who screamed in fear. Lhan might be an idler, as he always claimed, but he was a good man.
Some of them were definitely worth saving.
Taln looked down at the bodies as the screams called to him, feeling an
anger begin to burn in his chest. Three thousand years had men been on
Roshar. Three thousand years of being killed by the Khothen, buffeted by
highstorms, and surviving upon the harsh rocks of an inhospitable world.
Three thousand years, and they still had not learned. They still had to kill.
Quietly cursing himself for a fool, Taln turned his back on both corpses
and windows. He stalked down the hallway, passing Lhan, following the
sounds, and slammed open a door at the end.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 365
A group of the fake Aleth soldiers stood with corpses at their feet. A
small cluster of terrified servants cringed near the far wall, women clutching children, men huddled and frightened. Those with the will to fight back
already lay in their own blood.
The door shook as it slammed against the far wall, and the soldiers looked up. Most held spears, though a sword-wielding nobleman directed their
work. The officer waved toward Taln, barking a command in a language
Taln almost understood.
A spearman approached Taln with a grim expression. The soldier’s
eyes bespoke a guilty resolve. He had convinced himself that, as a simple
footsoldier, he was not responsible for the immoral decisions of his betters.
“You should know better,” Taln whispered angrily.
The spearman thrust with his weapon, and Taln was finally free. No
angry monks stopped him this time, no noblemen turned their backs, and
no Lady Jasnah appeared to stay his hand.
It had been centuries since he had last been able to fight back.
Taln ducked to the side, snatching the spear’s haft and yanking it
forward. The soldier yelped, falling off-balance, and Taln grabbed him by
the arm, twisting with a firm yank. The arm popped in its joint, and the
man screamed in pain as Taln jerked him around, grabbed him by the back
of the neck, and slammed his forehead against the stone doorway.
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 50
