is strong against it, you know. But you . . .”
Dalenar accepted the ladle, not responding. Garnet was strong against
Topaz, true—the first focused on quick, explosive kills, the later on
endurance and precision. Garnet was a Form for duels; Topaz was a Form
for the warrior who expected to fight a half-tenset different duels on the battlefield, bouts waged beneath a hot sun with spearmen waiting to attack the victor.
“If I may be so forward, my lord,” the monk noted, waving the young
water-carrier away. “You are as fine a master as this monastery has ever
known. Perhaps you should consider taking students.”
“Perhaps when better days come, brother Mazinchal,” Dalenar said.
“Ah,” the monk said, bowing his head. “Forgive me, my lord. I momen-
tarily forgot your . . . distractions.”
Dalenar waved dismissively, indicating that Mazinchal forget the supposed
offense. The monk bowed and retreated, allowing two younger monks to
remove his Plate so it could be used by another. Dalenar stood in the sun, sweat from the sparring rolling down his cheek. Mazinchal’s comment
was the closest anyone had come to mentioning Aredor’s disappearance
since the discovery five days before. Monks and lords alike stepped softly around Dalenar, none wishing to acknowledge his shame.
Dalenar wished such a luxury upon himself. Aredor’s betrayal—and
that’s how Dalenar had to regard it, as a betrayal—had undermined what-
ever authority Dalenar had hoped to maintain through neutrality. How did
it look for a lord to make a command, only to have his own heir flagrantly disobey?
Even worse than the political embarrassment, however, were the other
repercussions—punishments that must fall as soon as Aredor returned.
Did the boy realize the position in which he had placed his own father?
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For Dalenar to keep his oath—an oath made before an official emissary of
the king—he would have to disinherit his own son.
Dalenar closed his eyes, sighing quietly to himself. And who did
that leave? Renarin, openly stripped of his Blade by the king? Dalenar
had no illusions about Renarin’s reputation. Dalenar’s tribute lords and
Shardbearers would undoubtedly follow the boy out of loyalty to Dalenar’s
memory, but such loyalty dulled over time. It was not a good founda-
tion for rule. Perhaps, once the shame of his act was forgotten, Aredor
could be reinstated. It was unlikely, however, that the lords would forget recent events. In their minds, Aredor would be forever the boy who had
ignored his father’s command. How could Aredor command their oaths
when he himself had so flagrantly broken his own?
Not for the first time, Dalenar wished for Sheneres’s calm, understanding
counsel. The boy would have made a wonderful lord, far better than his
father. Sheneres had been able to make peace without creating enemies,
and could give commands that men followed out of desire, not just duty.
Another monk was stepping forward to spar—they knew that Dalenar
liked to vary his opponents. Dalenar stretched his hand to the side to begin summoning his Blade, but paused. A litter was approaching the monastery;
it was constructed of fine darkwood and laced with light pink seasilk, and the bearers wore Dalenar’s own insignia. He made a motion to his sparring
partner, and the man stepped back, nodding deferentially as Dalenar strode across the sands to meet Kinae.
She rarely visited him during his sparring time. Though he had never
forbidden her, Kinae somehow sensed that Dalenar saw the monastery as a
place of . . . refuge. Escape. And, despite her innocence, she obviously knew that he found her one of the things from which he needed that escape.
The litter-bearers stopped near the entrance to the monastery, where
several of Dalenar’s attendants stood, waiting for commands or messages.
The bearers lowered the litter, and Kinae stepped out, swathed in regal
seasilks suited to a more mature woman. She glanced uncomfortably
around the grounds, where monks had stopped their sparring to regard
their future lady.
“My lord,” Kinae said in her formal voice, “we just got a messenger who
says that my father is coming to Kholinar.”
“Your father?” Dalenar asked with surprise. “How many days away is he?”
“Not days, my lord,” Kinae said. “The messenger said he’d be here within
the hour.”
Dalenar gritted his teeth so the men wouldn’t hear him curse. Lord
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Echathen of Khardinar was a fine man and an excellent battlefield com-
mander, but he despised being fussed over. He often complained that he’d
rather eat with his men than dine at a regal feast, and absolutely loathed protracted ceremonies. He was, Dalenar reflected, much as Dalenar himself
would be, had he not been forced to grow up as a brother and uncle to kings.
“Gather my Shardbearers,” Dalenar commanded one of his attendants.
“Pull them from baths and dining if necessary. I want at least a tenset
of them there to greet Lord Echathen.” He pointed at another man. “Order
the cooks to prepare for a feast—simple food, without much garnish.” A
third man. “Warn Lord Valan of Echathen’s arrival, he’ll know what other
arrangements to make.” Dalenar had learned early in his career that he
needed a good palace steward to care for the details of pageantry that most nobility expected of a Parshen.
“My lord,” Kinae said under her breath. “I need to talk to you where
others can’t hear. Fast!”
Dalenar paused. Kinae was getting better at femininely masking her
emotions—though how she was learning such things without being
someone’s ward was beyond him. However, now that she had spoken, he
could see the barely-contained urgency in her eyes. She could have sent
a messenger to bring him word of her father’s impending arrival, yet she
had found it necessary to come herself. Whatever she wished to tell him,
it was important to her.
Dalenar made a few more commands, then stepped back a few paces,
waving Kinae forward so that they could speak in private.
“Is this about your father, Kinae?” Dalenar asked quietly.
“No, my lord,” she said, glancing nervously back at the attendants and
monks. “It’s about your son.”
“Aredor?” Dalenar asked with surprise.
“No, my lord. Renarin. I . . . I think he’s going to sneak off to the war
too.”
“What! ” Dalenar asked incredulously.
Kinae shied back at the outburst, looking down and flushing.
Dalenar control ed himself. Don’t overreact, he thought. This is Renarin she is speaking of. The boy wouldn’t do such a thing—his winds-cursed unassertiveness might be annoying, but it usually keeps him out of trouble.
“Kinae,” he said calmly. “What made you think such a thing?”
“I heard him talking, my lord,” she replied in a small voice. “With Lord
Merin. They were in the lord Renarin’s room. I was passing in the hallway, so I listened to them. Lord Merin said ‘We have to go after him.’ Lord
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 389
Renarin said ‘We can’t. My father will be angry.’ Then Lord Merin said
‘We have no choice! We can’t let
your brother die alone!’”
Dalenar stewed, grinding his teeth. They couldn’t possibly . . . But they
could. Merin still didn’t know the ways of nobility, and Dalenar knew that he and Aredor had become good friends. Renarin had always idolized his
older brother. If Merin put it into his head that they should go . . .
“I’ll check on it,” Dalenar said stiffly. “You did well by bringing this to me, Kinae.”
The girl looked up, smiling at the encouragement as Dalenar waved her
back to her litter.
He sent no messenger. As the Kholinar palace shuffled and spun with
servants preparing for a distinguished visitor, Dalenar himself went to check on Renarin. The boy was not in his rooms. When Dalenar found Merin
absent as well, he began to worry. He didn’t admit the truth, however,
until he visited the stables and found that Renarin had requisitioned two
of Dalenar’s swifter horses not an hour before. Apparently, Renarin had
told the stablehands that Dalenar wanted him to ride out and meet Lord
Echathen and escort him to the palace.
Dalenar forced himself to remain quiet about the disappearance. Even
when Lord Echathen’s party arrived with no Renarin as an escort, Dalenar
hoped that perhaps the boys would see their foolishness and return on their own. If they did so, he would be spared punishing them. Surely Renarin
would realize the stupidity of joining the war effort. He was no fighter.
But Merin was. Dalenar had known so many young men like him—most
noble, but boys were the same regardless of parentage. Merin was eager to
prove himself. Twice he had saved the king’s life—both times by fighting
when no one expected him to. He would assume himself immune to
reprimand—would think that this time, like before, he would somehow
find a way to do what everyone assumed he could not.
Dalenar kept his anger in check even as he stepped forward to greet
Kinae’s father. Third Lord Echathen was a man who could have been a
king, both in bearing and in lineage. His city, Khardinar, had been mostly independent of Alethkar since the turn of the century. Made wealthy by
grand sapphire mines and trade through its calm bays set at the very end
of the Kholinar Lait, the city had been close to declaring itself a separate kingdom until Nolhonarin’s firm defense against the invader Jarnah.
Dalenar still remembered a young Echathen, riding with his father to join
against the invasion, defending a common border despite internal disputes.
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When Echathen himself had inherited a short time later, Nolhonarin had
been quick to gain the young lord’s loyalty, folding Khardinar back into
Alethkar without sword or spear.
Echathen bowed deeply before Dalenar. “Greetings, my Parshen, ” he said. He had changed little since those days. He had lost most of his
hair—and now shaved off the rest—and time had added some creases to
the face, but he was still the stark and eager warrior who had ridden at
Dalenar’s side during the Jarnah war.
Dalenar forced a smile to his face. “You needn’t prostrate yourself so, old friend. Come, I’ve ordered a feast to refresh you from your journey.”
Echathen stood, smiling, then turned to regard Dalenar’s fourteen
Shardbearers—all in Plate—who stood at the head of a quarter tensquad
of soldiers, all saluting. Dalenar had avoided anything too dramatic—no
thrown flower petals, no trumpeters or heralds. Just the soldiers, greeting one of their own. This, however, still proved too much ceremony for the
aging Echathen.
“I see I gave you too much warning again,” Echathen said with a wry
grumble. “I’ll have to try and find slower horses for my messengers.”
Dalenar chuckled despite himself, turning and letting Echathen greet
Kinae. Again, the man bowed. Through betrothal, his own daughter’s
rank had been elevated beyond his own. She held herself well, all things
considered.
“We have prepared rooms for yourself and your men, my lord,” she
said. “Please make use of them. We shall begin the feast whenever you feel prepared.”
A slight discomfort flashed in Echathen’s eyes. “Thank you . . . my lady,”
he said. He turned, waving his group—mostly nobility, from the looks of
them—to follow Dalenar’s attendants to their rooms.
Dalenar fled to his balcony again. He stared out over the darkening
lait, listening to the lingering sounds of feasting below. He had retired at a distinguished time, leaving the younger men to their revelries—though
he doubted many of them would enjoy themselves as they would at another
lord’s palace. Dalenar’s thoughts on drinking and gluttony were wel -known.
Below, a group of dark-cloaked men galloped from the stables, torches
held high in the night as they rode on their lord’s business. Dalenar could no longer wait for Merin and Renarin to return. Rumors were already
spreading—the stablehands had spoken of the missing horses and the
lordlings who had not returned in Echathen’s party. By dawn most of
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 391
Kholinar would know that Dalenar’s second and final son had betrayed
him as well. This time, at least, Dalenar could deny the rumors—Renarin
had told no one of his leaving, and had given no explanation. Assuming
Dalenar’s men caught them before they arrived at the war, there might be
something he could do for the boys.
The lait cliffs were strange dark mountains in the waning light. Dalenar
sighed, suddenly feeling so very old.
A sound came from behind. Dalenar turned to find lord Echathen, tall
and broad-chested, standing at the doorway to his balcony. Dalenar waved
him forward.
Echathen stepped up to the stone railing, resting arms on its top, a glass of wine held loosely in one hand. “You look northeast,” he noted. “Toward
Crossguard.”
“I look northeast,” Dalenar agreed, “and consider the idiocy of youth.”
Echathen smiled. “We were idiots too, once.”
“I sometimes wonder if we still aren’t,” Dalenar said quietly.
Echathen snorted. “You’ll notice the men I brought with me,” he said.
Dalenar nodded—he had noticed. No ladies, only lords. Very strange
for a supposed social visit. They were Echathen’s most powerful tribute
lords and neighbors. All of them, like a surprisingly large percentage of
the Aleth nobility, had declared themselves neutral in Elhokar’s bickering with Jezenrosh. Dalenar’s refusal to take sides had made them bold.
“Many men think Elhokar acts presumptuously,” Echathen said simply.
“Those are treasonous words, old friend,” Dalenar said.
“It seems our country breeds treasonous words lately,” Echathen replied.
“Some wonder when the fighting will stop. They wonder if we were justified in invading Prallah. They wonder if their king has become the same kind of tyrant we fought so hard to defeat two decades ago.”
“Pralir harbored the Traitor,” Dalenar said simply.
“And so we invaded,” Echathen replied. “Without diplomacy, without
asking for a trial of our king’s murderer. We attacked within months of
his flight.”
Dalenar frowned. “If there are those who say such things,” he noted, “one
wonders why they didn’t join with Jezenros
h.”
“Because Jezenrosh is no better,” Echathen said, sipping his wine. “The
king is wrong to attack his countryman, but he was right to be wary.
Surely you’ve heard of the way Jezenrosh courted the nobility in Elhokar’s absence. Besides, Jezenrosh is no leader. Even those who follow him don’t
give him much respect. The boy’s too eccentric, and he has little skill in
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battle command. Men like him just fine, but they don’t want him as their
king.”
“I don’t see where this is going,” Dalenar said wearily.
“Don’t you?” Echathen asked. “Dalenar, there are many who whisper
that a new leader is needed—and that leader is not Jezenrosh. They need a
king they trust. A king respected like no man in Alethkar.”
Dalenar leaned against the stone rail, feeling a cool wind call through
the lait, ruffling his clothing. “Echathen, I am his Parshen. I will not betray my king.”
Echathen didn’t answer immediately. “No,” he finally said. “I guess I
didn’t really think you would. Just know this. When Elhokar came to us
three years ago—paranoid that Khardinar would rebel at the old king’s
death—and offered us his silly treaty, we did not accept it for him. He
suggested Kinae for one of his fops, it was I who insisted it be you. I know you’ve never liked the betrothal, Dalenar, but it was necessary.” He
paused, then lay a hand on Dalenar’s shoulder. “Khardinar is loyal to the
Tyrantbane. If he rides to arms, then so shall we. There are others who
would follow as well.”
With that, Echathen left him, and Dalenar bowed his head before the
wind, hoping that the Almighty was in its whispers—for he could certainly
use some direction.
chapter 43
JEK 7
Minrel struggled to keep her hand steady as she poured the tea.
She kept her eyes lowered, but couldn’t help glancing up at the man
seated at the low table before her. He was so strong of jaw, so determined and aristocratic. How could this man have ever been called the ‘Idiot King?’
It was difficult for Minrel to comprehend.
Granted, she had never seen the man up close before this day. She had
heard the stories, though. She knew of his transformation—the man before
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 54
