Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
Page 72
“That was kind of you,” Renarin said. His tone sounded . . . distracted.
But, well, that was kind of how he always was. “So, you’re the one who
opened the Oathgate? I wasn’t expecting it to be you, but I probably should have been able to figure it out. I’m far too new at this.”
Shinri nearly dropped the basket in shock. “How did you know that?”
she hissed.
There was no answer.
“Renarin!” Shinri said a little bit louder.
“We need to escape,” Renarin finally said, ignoring her question.
“That’s why I’m here,” Shinri said, bending down and sliding back the
feeding plate at the base of the door. “Here, take these rolls so the guard doesn’t get suspicious. I was thinking that we should—”
“Oh, don’t tell me,” Renarin said, “tell Merin.” Renarin’s face appeared
in the opening. He didn’t look too haggard, though he hadn’t shaved in a
while. His beard was dark, and a bit patchy, making him look even younger
than he was. Behind him, Shinri could make out something on the floor.
Something that looked like . . . scribbles of some sort.
Renarin accepted the bread. “Merin is on the other side,” he said. “He
can work with you on getting us out. I’m too busy right now. Thank you
for the bread.”
With that, he slid the plate closed with a motion that felt oddly like
he were locking her out of his private study. Shinri knelt, stupefied, for a moment.
I will never understand that boy, she thought with frustration, rising.
She walked back down the hallway, shooting a glance at the guard, then
turned down the second parallel corridor. Merin’s cell was directly opposite Renarin’s, and here Shinri paused, basket held before her, staring at the
blank door.
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She had avoided thinking much about Tethren. Everything else—her
marriage, the invasion, Ahven—was just too recent. Her soul already bore
a tenset fresh wounds; there was no need to prod at one that had begun
to scab over. She didn’t completely believe that Tethren was dead, but she knew that she probably wouldn’t ever be completely satisfied, for she had
seen no body. She had made what peace she could during those months
spent searching out what had happened to him.
Her grief for Tethren was a distant thing, dulled by time and distance.
In a way, her guilt over not feeling worse was even more painful than her
sense of loss. Yet for reasons she knew were irrational, the boy inside the cel before her was a focus for both emotions. She needed him if she were going to escape—even from a distance, she had heard rumored praises of Merin’s
natural fighting ability. The court’s men had been intimidated by this boy who had saved the king’s life twice, a boy who already—after just a few
months’ time—knew how to duel well enough to stand against noblemen
who had been training all their lives.
Yes, she needed this boy—Renarin alone would not be enough to get
her past the guards and to the Oathgates. Unfortunately, Shinri knew that
if she was going to work with Merin Kholin, she would need to know the
truth about Tethren. Bad news is not a thing to be avoided, Lady Jasnah had always said. Better to learn things that bring you pain than to remain in the greater agony of ignorance.
Shinri stepped up to the cell door’s window, going up on her toes and
peeking in. The cell was sparse and small. Merin looked little better than Renarin did, though he appeared far more a man with his soldier’s build and even beard. He sat at the back of the room, legs folded, hand held before
him with one finger pointing toward the ceiling. He was staring intently
at the finger, as if in some sort of trance.
Wonderful, Shinri thought, anticipating another conversation like the one with Renarin. The guard was right. His mind’s gone.
“Merin?” she asked. “Merin Kholin?”
The boy looked up, lowering his hand slightly and focusing on the win-
dow. He sat for a moment, then leapt to his feet with excitement. “I know
you!” he said, rushing to the window. “Lady Jasnah’s ward!”
Shinri paused, slightly taken aback. “Shinri Davar,” she said, lowering
herself from her toes and speaking through the door.
“Am I to be released?” Merin asked with excitement. “Has King Elhokar
retaken the palace?”
“Hush!” Shinri said, glancing toward the guard, who didn’t appear to
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have noticed Merin’s exclamation. “The palace is under Veden control. I
am suffered because I am a . . . relation of their king. They think I’m only bringing you some bread.”
“Oh.” Merin’s voice sounded disappointed. “Renarin and I need to
escape,” he said after a few moments. “Can you help us?”
“Perhaps,” Shinri said. “I might be able to discover a time when the
Oathgates will be open for us. But they are guarded by five men.”
“Us?” Merin asked.
“I’m going with you,” Shinri said. “It’s complicated, but I cannot stay in Ral Eram any longer.”
Merin was quiet for a moment. “I’ll need my Blade,” he finally said. “You
need to get me a Shardblade.”
You say that as if finding one were as easy as sneaking extra dessert from the palace kitchens. “That may not be possible,” Shinri said. “Let me think about it.” Today I just wanted to make sure you were both fit and sane—or, in Renarin’s case, as close to sane as possible.
“It’s just good to talk to someone,” Merin said, his voice sounding
relieved. “Someone other than Renarin, that is. He’s a good man, but he’s
a little . . .”
“Strange?” Shinri asked.
“Strange,” Merin agreed.
“I need to give you the bread and be going,” Shinri said, kneeling down.
“I’ll be back, though.”
“When?”
“I don’t know,” Shinri said. “In a few days at most.” She slid open the
feeding plate, then opened her basket. She paused, however. “There is
something else,” she said, moving to hand him the bread. “The man you
killed on the battlefield, the one whose Shardblade you earned. Can
you remember anything about him?”
Merin’s face appeared behind the plate. He frowned in confusion. “The
man in Prallah?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. There wasn’t much time to think, and he
wore full Shardplate. I didn’t see his face, only his horse charging toward the king.”
Shinri kept her face expressionless as Merin accepted the bread. “Nothing
else?” she asked. “There was nothing distinctive about him? Nothing you
remember about him or his armor?”
Merin paused. Then he suddenly grew excited, setting his bread on the
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floor beside him. He grabbed a small rock from behind him and scratched
something into the stone. “Do you recognize this glyph?” he asked eagerly.
Shinri frowned at his awkward scrawl, obviously made by the hand of
one who didn’t know proper slants or line orders. It was still recognizable, however, as nan, one of the more common glyphs.
“Yes,” Shinri said. “Why?”
“I found a rock carved with this symbol tucked inside the dead Shard-
bearer’s gauntlet,�
�� Merin said. “What does it mean?”
Shinri’s frown deepened. The symbol was slightly off. It might have
been Merin’s unpracticed hand, but there were a few extra lines. It looked almost like . . .
Shinri couldn’t stop her slight intake of breath.
“What?” Merin asked. “There’s something special about it, isn’t there?
It’s a glyph of power. I . . . I think it’s magical somehow.”
“Don’t be silly,” Shinri said. He’s just a peasant, she reminded herself.
To most of them, all writing is mystical. Don’t snap at him. “The glyph means
‘lightning,’” she said. “I’ve seen it hundreds of times. There’s nothing
magical about it.”
“Why the reaction then?” Merin demanded.
“Those lines you drew at the sides,” Shinri said. “They’re familiar to me.
They make the symbol look very similar to a stylized glyph, the type used
by noblemen to differentiate their various lines.”
Merin frowned. “Well, whose glyph is this one?”
Shinri closed her eyes, sitting back. “The queen’s,” she said. “Queen
Nanavah.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Merin complained. “Why would the
Shardbearer be carrying it?”
He wanted my sister. Even from a distance, Ahven’s words taunted her.
He loved her with the deep, foolish love men reserve for something unattainable.
“The stone,” Shinri said. “Carved with a lady’s glyph. It is a . . . sign of favor, given to a friend or loved one.”
“You have to be wrong,” Merin said.
I wish I was.
“There’s no reason for the man to be carrying a stone carved with Queen
Nanavah’s glyph,” Merin said. “Maybe I drew it wrong. I’m telling you,
there was something magical about that glyph. I can’t really explain it, but trust me—it was there.”
Maybe his mind has been affected by the captivity, Shinri thought, standing.
“I’ll return,” she said, picking up her basket.
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He never really wanted you, Ahven hissed in her mind. He couldn’t have—
you were given to him freely.
“Get me a Shardblade!” Merin repeated, his face appearing in the cell
window. “I have to go help Lord Dalenar.”
Shinri nodded, turning and walking down the hallway. Before, she’d had
the benefit of presumption—as long as Ahven’s words had been her only
proof of Tethren’s love of the queen, Shinri had been able to disbelieve.
But now . . .
The man is dead, Shinri told herself. Months gone. His infidelity shouldn’t matter. What power has he over you?
“You were in there a long time,” the guard said as she passed. “Spent a
while chatting, didn’t you?”
Shinri paused, wrestling down her emotions and giving the guard a flat
stare. “I had to make certain the prisoners were fit,” she said. “My only
concern is that they be healthy enough to be of use to my husband.”
“Of course,” the guard said, reclining in his chair. “Very good of you.
Next time, bring some money.”
Shinri thinned her eyes slightly at the man, then nodded and turned
down the hallway to make her way back toward her chambers.
chapter 57
LHAN 1
Lhan Radenmev had only ever been good at two things in his life.
The first was avoiding responsibility. The second was helping people.
Some called it altruism. That, however, was far too noble a word. Lhan
understood himself, and—with all frankness—knew himself to be a selfish,
lethargic man. However, he had always been interested in people. When
growing up, his only inborn asset had been his tongue—he could get
anyone to talk to him, even those who didn’t particularly like him. The
variety he saw in personalities, attitudes, and opinions had fascinated him even as a child.
Others thought that because Lhan had little regard for possessions, he
was humble. That was a mistake. If Lhan ignored the baubles and finery
that had delighted his brother, sister, and their noble friends, it was only because he was busy with objects far more splendid: people.
The young Lhan had met as many individuals as he could, prompting
them to speak, using his strange ability to put them at ease to discover their true opinions and emotions. He had a gift in his ability to make strangers open up and speak to him as if they were confiding in a spouse, rather
than some random Shardbearer’s son. Lhan listened to their ramblings
with rapt attention, collecting minds in the same way a wealthy merchant
might gather precious works of art. The more interesting and strange the
personality, the more excited Lhan was to speak with its owner.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 521
The benefit his subjects gained from these discussions had been quite
unexpected. He soon became a topic of discussion among the Kholinar elite; the ladies in their sitting groups would speak about Chaden Radenmev’s
firstborn son. They referred to Lhan by all manner of praiseful adjectives—
respectful, wise, sober. That last one had particularly bothered Lhan, and so he had decided to disprove it by getting himself quite drunk on his
twelfth birthday.
Lhan’s father hadn’t quite known what to do with the boy. In Lhan’s mind,
Chaden had been anything but interesting. He was a straightforward, stout, bull of a man, a loyal Shardbearer to King Nolhonarin, but otherwise rather unimpressive. Looking back, Lhan thought that his father had probably
been a very good and noble person, a man whose only crime had been being
less clever than his son would have liked. At the time, however, Lhan had
found his family incurably boring, and had instead preferred to spend his
time with more lively subjects—such as the gossiping palace maids, or
the men confined to the stocks in the courtyard, or even (when he could
manage it) the mysterious Awakeners of Nolhonarin’s court.
Regardless of the reasonings, Chaden hadn’t seen in Lhan the ‘wise
young man’ that the court seemed to think he had spawned. To him,
Lhan had just been a disrespectful slop of a boy who refused to learn
proper discipline and who found great amusement in mocking his own
father.
Back then, people often told Lhan that his tongue would get him
in trouble, but he usually quipped that there wasn’t any trouble his tongue could bring that his wit wouldn’t be able to solve. Then the day had come
when his father had realized an amazing fact—that there was an easy,
court-approved way to remove Lhan from the succession, thereby allowing
Chaden to pass his Blade and title on to Lhan’s younger brother, a boy far more modest in both acumen and action.
Lhan had found himself in the monastery the very next day.
It hadn’t even been a scandal. People had often remarked that Chaden’s
thoughtful little boy possessed a gift for helping people. What better place was there for such a person than in Peacehome monastery? No amount of
wit had been able to free Lhan from the pact his father made—Lhan was
Birthgiven, and would remain a monk until the day he died.
At first, Lhan hadn’t realized how perfect the monastery was for him.
After all, it gave him wonderful opportunities to develop both of his
strengths: there had been no lack of responsibilities to avoid, and Peace-<
br />
home—as an Order of Kavel monastery—saw a constant rotation of
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the poor, the wounded, and even the insane. Fascinating personalities
abounded.
It hadn’t taken long for Lhan to bless his father’s decision rather than
resent it. The other monks had been surprised by Lhan’s willingness to
work with the mad, but they had been more than willing to give him the
duty—in many of their minds, it was a fitting punishment for his fondness
of avoiding work. Only the wizened Peacehome First Monk had seen
some of the truth in Lhan’s motivations. The man had never gone so far
as to forbid Lhan’s work with the insane, but he had always warned—as if
speaking with the same spirit as those who had spoken of Lhan’s trouble-
making tongue—that Lhan’s fascination with madmen would eventually
lead him to poor ends.
For the first time in his life, Lhan had a mind to agree with the old
corpse.
What was Lhan—lover of peaceful mornings, relaxing afternoons,
and quiet evenings—doing on a cliffside in northern Riemak? Why was
he standing beside soldiers and Shardbearers, holding a spear as if he
thought he might know what to do with it? The idea was so ridiculous
that, at times, he laughed.
And yet, there he was, standing in the evening light, wearied from
marching, drawn halfway across the continent by the most fascinating
personality he had ever found.
Taln stood at the very edge of the cliffside, scanning the rock plains
below them. Apparently, northern Riemak was a progressive gradient, the
land rising to what would eventually become the desolate stormlands of
Kavenar. Several days before, the group had arrived at a set of step-like
plateaus leading up. Lhan cringed when he remembered lugging his pack
all the way up those switchbacks. There were apparently more plateaus
ahead, but they had passed the greater deal of the climbing.
The land they would now have to travel consisted of a series of broken
plateaus, the stone pocketed and slashed by rainchannels. It was colder than Lhan would have expected, despite it being the Searing, and the winds
swept across the army’s line unbroken and strong. He hated to think how
it would feel in a highstorm.