Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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


  The soldier slumped to the ground, and Taln kicked the spear up into

  his hand. He spun it and fell into a fighting stance.

  The other soldiers stared down at their unconscious comrade. The

  frightened servants fell silent, looking up with hopeful faces.

  “Kill him!” the officer yel ed, his foreign words becoming distinct as Taln’s mind decrypted the changes in the Veden language since his departure.

  Taln did not wait for the soldiers to obey. He leapt forward, spinning

  his spear in a staff-form. The four spearman fell into a line, like battlefield warriors, holding their spears as if to thrust. Taln knocked their weapons aside, slamming the butt of his spear into a head as he spun past. He ducked beneath a spear swipe, turning to ram his weapon through a second man’s

  side, just below the breastplate. The soldier stumbled to his knees, his death throes twisting the still-impaling spear in Taln’s fingers. Taln dropped the weapon, ducked to the side, and kicked another fallen spear up into his

  hands. Then he raised it to deflect a third soldier’s thrust.

  Taln jumped backward, spinning his weapon around so the tip faced

  behind him, then rammed it through the surprised nobleman’s neck. Taln

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  turned, sidestepping a spear thrust, then spun his weapon around and

  stabbed his attacker in the thigh. The man dropped to one knee, and Taln

  took him down with a second thrust to the face.

  The final spearman tried a wild thrust, but Taln rapped the haft of his

  own weapon against the man’s spear three times in blinding succession,

  stepping forward with each hit, then dropped his spear as he got too close for effectiveness and punched his opponent square in the face.The spearman fell unconscious. Taln spun one final time, cloak billowing as he kicked a third spear into his hand. He raised it carefully, eyeing the fallen men for further danger. The impaled spearman finally jerked to a painful stop, and none of the others moved.

  The room was still. “By the winds . . .” a voice finally whispered. Lhan

  stood at the doorway, eyes wide with shock.

  Taln lowered his spear, the metal tip clicking against the stone floor.

  Then he dropped the weapon, waving toward the frightened servants. “See

  to them,” he ordered Lhan as he moved to check on the servants who had

  been struck down before he arrived. There were five. A couple of the dead

  lay clutching makeshift weapons—lengths of wood or kitchen knives. Only

  one had a pulse, an aging man in the uniform of a citizen courier.

  Taln rolled the injured man onto his side, pressing his hand against the

  still-bleeding spear wound. He reflexively reached out to the Nahel bond within him, preparing to draw upon the life energy of the thousands who

  were linked to his Soul Tone.

  And found nothing. He cursed quietly. There would be no healings this

  Return until he discovered what had happened to his powers. He would

  have to do things the old-fashioned way. He reached over, sliding a dagger from a dead soldier’s belt, then cut away the wounded man’s shirt. The spear wound was relatively shallow.

  “Father!” a younger woman said, rushing to the man’s side. Lhan gently

  pul ed her away as Taln cleaned the wound with his water flask, then bound it with a strip of cloth from the man’s own cloak. He nodded to Lhan,

  motioning for him to let the girl attend the fallen man.

  Taln stood, assessing the situation. There were nine servants remaining,

  minus the wounded man, but four were women and three were children. The

  two men were an unimpressive pair; obviously brothers, they were spindly,

  nervous, and dressed in the simple garb of kitchen assistants.

  “You two,” Taln said, kicking a pair of spears into his hands. “Take

  these.” The two kitchenmen caught the spears in uncertain hands.

  “I . . . my lord—” one began.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 367

  “I know,” Taln interrupted. “You don’t know how to use them. Try

  and look like you do.” He tossed a third spear to Lhan. “Same for you.”

  He nodded to the four women. “Two of you, fashion a litter from that

  nobleman’s cloak and the two remaining spears so we can pull the wounded

  man behind us. One of you, watch after the children. And you . . .” The

  final woman was a stout, middle-aged scullery maid with a wrinkled,

  unfrightened expression. Taln tossed her the nobleman’s sword. She caught

  it with surprise. “They won’t expect you to be armed,” Taln said. “Find a

  way to exploit their ignorance. Let’s move.”

  As the women crafted their litter, Taln gathered daggers from the fallen

  soldiers. He kept two and gave the other three to the unarmed women.

  Then he told the servants to remain still for a moment as he ducked back

  into the hallway and checked the eastern ramp.

  It was now guarded by another squadron of soldiers.

  Taln gritted his teeth, then made his way back to the room. The women

  were still working on the litter when Taln re-entered. As Taln tried to

  decide what to do, Lhan approached him. “It appears I was wrong about

  you again,” the monk said. “Where did you learn to . . .”

  Lhan trailed off as Taln regarded him with a suffering expression.

  “Oh, right,” Lhan mumbled. “Three-thousand-year-old pseudo-divinity.

  Well, got any holy powers that will get us out of the palace?”

  Taln snorted, tucking one of his daggers into the knife-fold on the inside of his cloak. “You’re the one who wanted to stay and help.”

  Lhan looked helplessly at the spear in his hand, then down at the dead

  servants and soldiers. He gritted his teeth. “Right. Where next, then?”

  Taln shook his head. “Your first instinct was right. We need to leave. I

  can’t fight an entire army.”

  “Do you think they intend to . . .?”

  “Kill everyone in the palace?” Taln asked. “Probably. That would be the

  easiest way to insure that no one gets out to warn the city guard. They’ll likely take a few hostages from among the upper nobility to use as leverage against Elhokar, but it’s doubtful that even those will survive the invasion.”

  “The upper nobility . . .” Lhan said. “You mean, like Lady Jasnah?”

  Taln paused. Yes. Exactly like Lady Jasnah. Why did the thought bother him? He owed the woman nothing. Or did he? She had saved his life,

  perhaps twice. Though she thought him a madman, she had seen to his

  care, even his comfort, during his stay in Ral Eram.

  He had seen the way that hostage women, even nobility, were often

  treated by their captors.

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  The ramps were blocked, the palace sealed. In better circumstances,

  perhaps he could have taken the Oathgates and stopped the flow of soldiers, but he didn’t have the manpower to attempt such a dangerous move. There

  were, however, other ways out of the building—ways known only to those

  who had been present when the foundations were lain.

  It was on the way. If he took them to the cellars, he would pass through

  the Aleth royal quarters. It would probably be only a short stop to check

  and see if Lady Jasnah were still alive, assuming he knew specifically which rooms belonged to her.

  Taln turned, regarding the steady-backed maid, who had taken command

  of the small group of maids and was directing the construction of the

  litter. The woman w
orked efficiently—her presence was obviously a comfort

  to the younger girls, and they had almost completed their task.

  “Woman,” Taln said.

  She turned. “Denia, my lord.”

  “Denia,” Taln said. “Do you know which quarters belong to . . .”

  “Lady Jasnah, my lord?” She asked. “The lady was to be married today.

  Do you want her quarters, or her husband’s quarters?”

  Married? Taln thought with shock. “Her quarters,” he finally decided. It was as good a choice as any.

  “I can show you then, my lord,” the chambermaid said. “Once we reach

  the proper section.”

  Taln nodded to himself, stepping out the eastern door and listening

  in the hallway beyond. He heard faint sounds of battle coming from the

  rightmost corridor. “This way,” he said, waving his nervous group forward.

  “That way?” Lhan asked. “But that’s the direction of the fighting!”

  “Where there is fighting, there is resistance,” Taln said. “And that is

  where we want to be. Come.”

  chapter 41

  JASNAH 9

  The Vorin wedding ceremony was an archaic tradition, a remnant of

  epochs when the religion had held far more sway than it did in modern

  Roshar. Vorinism hadn’t had any real power since the turn of the epoch,

  when the Oathshard Kings had proclaimed the cycle of Returns broke.

  The religion’s eventual decision to stop warning about Stormshades and

  Returns—accepting as canonical the reports that the Heralds themselves

  had declared the Khothen defeated—had only weakened its stance further.

  In modern Roshar it was fashionable to profess Vorin allegiance, but

  few noblemen gave much thought to the Almighty’s supposed whims

  beyond paying their tributes and attending the occasional reading from

  the Arguments. The monasteries were no longer the political power they once had been.

  Still, tradition was the foremost law of Aleth noble culture, and even

  a professed heretic such as Jasnah could not escape a Vorin wedding. Of

  course, as much as she was displeased by her forced submission to the

  Almighty’s ‘approval’ of her union, the emotion could not compete with

  her distaste of the man she was to marry.

  Meridas stood with the air of smug satisfaction of a man who thought

  himself responsible for far more than he could legitimately take credit.

  He wore a fashionable pair of long leather boots, a pair of loose trousers bulging out over the top, and a militarily-cut overshirt with wide cuffs. His

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  cloak was blue, of course, to signify his union with the Kholin house, and it matched Jasnah’s talla, which Meridas himself had purchased and sent to her. It was a fabulously extravagant gown, dressed with frills and colored with the deepest of blue dyes. The left sleeve, traditionally long, was

  tiered with overlapping swaths of light blue silk down to the cuff, which

  ended just short of her ankles.

  The location for the ceremony was the Eleventh Hall. The wedding was

  attended mostly by women, for their men were at war beside their king.

  Her brother himself was noticeably absent. Elhokar’s official reason was the pressing need to respond to Jezenrosh’s attempted assassination. The truth, Jasnah suspected, was more private. She had seen Elhokar several times

  before he left the palace to join his troops, and each time he had been

  unable to meet her eyes. It did not surprise her that he had chosen not to attend the wedding.

  The ceremony began, and Jasnah noted with distaste that Lhardon, the

  obsequious First Monk of Peacehome, had been chosen to officiate. Lhardon

  stood at the front of the room beside Meridas, beaming at the importance

  of his position—and probably thinking of the generous tribute her brother

  would have given Peacehome in exchange for performing the ceremony.

  The First Monk began with an overdone speech, then waved for a hundred

  candle-bearing monks to enter the hall, lighting the way for Jasnah to

  approach.

  She did so, trying to keep her head high and her face expressionless,

  despite her sickened stomach. Shinri had disappeared the night of the

  dueling competition—undoubtedly Elhokar had assumed the girl knew

  too much, and had ordered her silenced. The thought made Jasnah despair;

  Shinri had done nothing wrong other than to associate with Jasnah. Her

  death, like those of Nelshenden and Kemnar, could be attributed directly

  to Jasnah’s foolish devotion to her brother.

  Jasnah had spent the last few weeks locked within her rooms, only allowed

  freedom when escorted by a tenset soldiers sworn to Meridas. Every letter

  she scribed was confiscated by the guards, presumably to be translated by

  monks and likely destroyed. Those responses which did come had been

  opened and perused, and were always of little use. She had hoped that some of her more subtle pleas for aid might go unnoticed by her captors, but she suspected that Meridas himself was the one looking through her letters.

  For an unmarried man such as himself to excel so wonderful y at politics, he had likely been forced to learn some traditionally feminine skills.

  When she reached the front of the room, Jasnah knelt on the cushion,

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 371

  bowing her head before the standing form of the man who would soon

  be her husband. She knelt with resignation, not without hope. Though

  her skin squirmed at the thought of Meridas touching her, she had never

  expected anything but a marriage of necessity. For now, there was little she could do against the men who had betrayed her. However, the wife of a

  Parshen was a powerful woman, and men were creatures of short memory, quick to laxness and presumed victory. She had seen that her brother kept

  his throne during the chaotic years following their father’s death. She could see it lost to him during the uncertain years of conquest.

  The ceremony proceeded, Jasnah kneeling in the uncomfortable position

  as Lhardon droned on, quoting from the Arguments and The Way of Kings. He drew upon the formal Vorin ceremonial texts as well, quoting passages that implied nobility was granted and suffered by the monks—passages that would never have been tolerated outside a wedding speech.

  Soon the time came for the final piece of the ceremony. Lhardon proffered

  his blessing, and Meridas extended his hand to accept Jasnah as his own.

  Jasnah looked up at Meridas, regarding the oily merchant in his finery, his hand proffered. When she took that hand, she would legally be his, bound

  by promise to protect his interests and his power.

  The room was silent as she stared at the open palm. Lhardon coughed

  uncomfortably, and women in the crowd shot each other nervous glances.

  Can I do it? Jasnah wondered. Political necessity or not, can I marry the man who killed Nelshenden?

  The door burst open, a sudden breeze causing candles to flicker. Heads

  turned to regard a bloodied soldier. “My lord!” the man cried, stumbling

  forward, monks and noblewomen shuffling away like scattering rodents.

  “The palace is under assault!”

  “What foolishness is this?” Meridas demanded, lowering his hand.

  The soldier held his side, blood dripping between fingers. “The Oath-

  gates, my lord. They have been breached!”

  Meridas paused, then white smoke formed around his hand. “Take my

  wife to my chambers!�
�� he commanded four men of his honor guard as his

  Blade appeared in his hand. “The rest of you, come with me.”

  The soldiers pulled her to her feet, several ladies in waiting scrambling

  forward to help Jasnah gather up her extensive blue seasilk train. The

  soldiers nervously led her from the room, the monks and other nobility

  staying behind, muttering amongst themselves in uncertain voices.

  The Oathgates, breached? It was unlikely. The Gates had been designed so that no such thing could happen—no king, even one of the infamously

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  noble kings of the original Oathpact, would allow an uncontrollable portal into the center of his capital city. Both sides of a gate had to be opened by Awakeners before passage was possible.

  Unlikely, true, but not impossible. An Awakener spy could have been

  sent—a young one, new to his power. One who had not lost his sensitivity

  to the outside world, but instead retained his ambition and interest in

  politics. If such an Awakener could have found his way to the Oathgate

  chamber, opening their side . . .

  But who would invade? Dalenar? Had he joined with Jezenrosh? Somehow

  Jasnah couldn’t see her stately uncle working in such a devious manner.

  Thalenah, then? King Amelin was said to be very lax with his Awakeners,

  allowing them free rein of the city. Ral Eram was even more depleted of

  troops and Shardbearers than it had been during the extended Prallah

  campaign—Elhokar wanted to make quick work of Jezenrosh, attacking

  with flare before his allies remembered how wearied they were of war. What if the First Capital had proven too tempting a gem for an outside invader?

  Such were her thoughts as the guards rushed her toward the Aleth

  section of the palace. She was so wrapped up in her machinations that she

  didn’t notice the attack until the first guard fell dead.

  Jasnah stumbled back in shock as the man died, her ladies screaming in

  horror. Meridas’s soldiers leapt into action, defending themselves against a group of armed attackers who burst from a doorway at the side. The

  attackers had superior numbers, however, and they quickly overwhelmed

  the three men. In a matter of seconds, all three of Meridas’s soldiers had fallen. Jasnah looked for escape, but knew that her dress would keep her

 

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