Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

  seeming removed. He was exactly the type of leader the Veden people

  liked—young, handsome, straight-backed, and disciplined. Whoever had

  trained Ahven to act this part had done a good job. The generals treated

  Ahven with respect, and he in turn listened carefully to their suggestions.

  His willingness to listen made him seem wise, yet the way he spoke when

  he made the final decisions left no question as to who was in charge.

  And Vedens always felt more comfortable when they knew exactly who

  was in charge.

  I wonder if Ilhadal realizes how thoroughly his army has been stolen from him, Jek thought. The Davar First Prince probably thought himself still in control. However, he would never be a force in Kanaran politics

  again.

  The generals quieted as one of them noticed the approaching messenger.

  To the side, Jek noticed Balenmar, the aged Aleth councilor, step from his tent and wander toward the table. The elderly man’s eyes were curious.

  The messenger dismounted, then rushed forward with the bearing of

  one who had important information. He stopped before Ahven’s table,

  dropping to one knee.

  “The battle has begun, my lord,” the man informed. “It began soon after

  dawn, both armies engaging at once. The final counts put Dalenar Kholin

  with near twenty-one thousand troops, and King Elhokar with twenty-six.

  Elhokar has thirty-five Shardbearers, but Dalenar only twenty-six.”

  The generals nodded at the information. “The king has the advantage,

  then,” one of them declared to general assent. Both armies were wel -rested, and previous counts had placed Elhokar with more archers and better

  equipment than Dalenar. They also had the advantage of several towers

  captured from Crossguard, as well as the city walls to use as archer stations.

  Elhokar’s force trumped that of Dalenar in every area.

  “The Tyrantbane will win the day,” Ahven said.

  The talk grew quiet. “Why do you say that, your majesty?” one of the

  generals finally ventured.

  “Because he is Dalenar Kholin,” Ahven said simply, as if his reasoning

  were obvious. “Elhokar has the edge in men and equipment, but that edge

  is slight. Dalenar’s men will fight harder, for they best believe in the nobility

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  of their lord. On the morrow, when our own forces attack, we will face

  Dalenar Kholin, and not his foolish nephew.”

  The generals glanced at each other, but they obviously had too much

  respect to contradict their liege. “Either way,” one offered, “it will be a broken army we face. Dalenar’s arrival was certainly fortunate! Once

  the Aleth destroy one another, there won’t be any left to resist us.”

  This restored the mood, and the generals turned to interrogating the

  messenger for specific troop placements, so that they could theorize how

  the battle would proceed. Ahven dismissed himself from their group with

  an acknowledging nod, then strolled over to stand beside Jek. He didn’t

  speak for a moment, instead watching the generals deliberate. The man was

  different when he was in public—he had a charismatic, aristocratic air about him. Regal, even. Jek could almost believe him to be an honorable man.

  “You were surprised at my words,” Ahven finally said, turning to look

  at Jek.

  “Yes,” Jek admitted.

  “You disagree?”

  “No, actual y,” Jek said. “But I did not expect to hear you speak of nobility and honor. I would have thought that you would view Dalenar Kholin as a

  fool and a traditionalist.”

  Ahven smiled to himself. He glanced back at the generals and their aides

  for a few more moments before returning to the conversation with Jek.

  “What do men want in a leader, assassin?” he asked.

  Jek frowned. “Eastern men, or Shin men?”

  “They are the same,” Ahven said.

  Hardly. Jek did not wish to argue the point, however. “Men look for strength. They want a leader who makes wise decisions, and moral men seek

  a leader who will act with honor.”

  “Close,” Ahven said. “They do look for honor. But it is not morality that

  spurs them to do so—it is guilt.” Ahven turned away from Jek, looking

  over his army. “Man’s greatest desire is to delude himself, assassin. He seeks every opportunity to do so—in love, in faith, and especially in war. It is vital that soldiers be able to convince themselves that their leader is honorable, for only then can they place their sins upon him. They can pretend not to

  think; they can simply do as they are told. This is why men gravitate toward leaders with grand reputations for honor. Deep inside, however, we all

  know the truth. The leader’s duty is to accept the guilt of his followers—to give them reasons to kill, to lie about his nobility so they can cling to their fabricated beliefs.”

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  Generals deliberated and soldiers chatted, but Jek only heard the wind

  above. The leader’s duty is to accept the guilt of his followers . . .

  Suddenly a number of things made sense.

  “That’s why you do it,” Jek whispered. “The random killings. You’re

  trying to force yourself to be heartless.”

  “A leader cannot afford a conscience, assassin,” Ahven said quietly. “He

  must be strong where his people are weak. When the difficult decisions

  arrive, he will have to make them—everyone will expect him to make

  them. Invading another kingdom, causing the deaths of thousands . . . No

  regular man could be expected to bear the guilt of such a decision. But a

  leader . . . a king . . . this is what they ask of him.”

  Jek suppressed a shiver. There was a twisted nobility to the concept, and

  it unnerved him. “Bajerden thought differently.”

  “Bajerden the Wise?” Ahven asked with amusement. “Author of The Way

  of Kings? Assassin, I learned these things from him.”

  Jek snorted. “Then you weren’t listening very carefully. Bajerden,

  Fandeladana in our tongue, is the only Kanaran man to ever be granted

  a Truthname by the Shin.”

  “And your people were wise to do so,” Ahven said. “For Bajerden truly

  understood the ways of men. What is The Way of Kings? A book that describes the ideal leader, a nobleman who sacrifices his will for the good of his people. Bajerden’s ‘Sovereign’ is a perfect man—a man of nobility,

  of mercy, and of virtue. An impossibility. Bajerden set up an ideal that

  could not be reached, and he did it intentionally, as an object lesson. He wanted to prove that no man could be what his people desired. Yet at the

  same time, Bajerden showed that this ideal man is what the leader must

  appear to be. The more perfectly a leader maintains the appearance that

  he is infallible, the more his soldiers will be able to ignore their own guilt, and the better they will fight. But if he falls . . .”

  Jek shook his head. Disgust welled within him. “You are a broken

  embarrassment of a king, Ahven Vedenel,” he said quietly.

  “Oh?” Ahven asked. “And what of you? What of the murders you have

  committed? The helpless and the young? What of their slaughters.”

  “Those were your—” Jek broke off.

  “My fault,” Ahven said, smiling slightly. “My guilt, not yours. You are

  a tool.”

  “Your earlier logic does not hold,” Jek said angrily. “I don’t look
to you for honor.”

  “That is because for you, the illusion is broken,” Ahven said. “And for

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  that, you hate me. If, however, I were someone you wanted to trust—say,

  one of your Shin holy men—things would be different. What if one of your

  Stone Shamans ordered you to kill a child? What if he convinced you that

  that child’s death would protect the greater good? Your shamans are the only ones who can order a violation of your all-powerful Truth, are they not?”

  “They would never do such a thing,” Jek said. “You think you understand

  our ways, but you know nothing. The Holetental would not command the

  death of an innocent as you have.”

  “Oh?” Ahven asked. “And what of the invasion nearly twenty years ago?”

  Jek paused. “That was different.”

  “Was it?” Ahven prompted. “You sided with Jarnah, the Conqueror. You

  invaded the Kanaran Peninsulas, slaying thousands, capturing Thalenah,

  Vedenar, and Prallah. And you did it all upon the word of your shamans,

  who claimed the Return had come again, that the Stormshades had re-

  turned to Roshar.”

  Jek held his gaze firm, but he felt like looking away in shame. The Jarnah invasion was something few Shin wished to discuss.

  “What happened at the end, assassin?” Ahven asked. “Did you find any

  demons to slay, or did you just find innocent soldiers? What of the claimed Return? Seventeen years have passed without sign of any monsters come to

  destroy humankind. Your shamans were wrong, but you listened to them

  anyway. You killed upon their word. Conquered, just as I do. What did

  your shamans see? Were their visions wrong? Or, perhaps, did they have

  a simpler motive? A desire to capture the lands to the east . . . an excuse.”

  “Enough!” Jek snapped.

  Ahven nodded with sagacious understanding.

  You understand nothing, Idiot King, Jek thought furiously. You twist and pervert. The self-convincing, however, wasn’t strong enough to dispel the questions Ahven had raised. Jek stood for a few uncomfortable minutes,

  wrestling with what the Idiot King had said, until an annoyed Ilhadal

  appeared on the scene.

  “Why was I not informed of the messenger’s arrival?” the hefty man

  demanded.

  “Obviously you were, Lord Davar,” Ahven said smoothly. “Otherwise

  you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Only because I left one of my men here to watch in case news arrive!”

  Ilhadal said. “I’m leader of House Davar—I should be sent for before an important messenger gives his report.”

  One of the generals mumbled something to his companions, who smiled

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  in agreement. There was a general opinion that Ilhadal shouldn’t leave aides to listen to the battle plans, but attend the meetings himself. However,

  Ilhadal hadn’t returned to the battle meetings ever since embarrassing

  himself on the first day, when he had displayed a noted lack of tactical

  understanding.

  “An oversight,” Ahven promised. “No offence was intended, Lord Davar.

  Besides, this wasn’t really an important messenger. He simply told us that the battle had begun, but we knew that it would anyway.”

  Ilhadal looked partially soothed by the words. “The two Aleth forces

  have met, then. When do we march?”

  “Soon,” Ahven promised. “Tomorrow morning, likely. We will arrive that

  evening, then attack the following morning. Whatever forces are left will

  give us little trouble—though, if you wish, you may join with our generals as they plan our attack . . .”

  Ilhadal paled just slightly. “I have no time,” he said. “I must prepare my men to march. Good day, Ahven.”

  The king smiled as Ilhadal scrambled away, a host of attendants and

  aides trailing behind him. “That man will have to be dealt with eventually,”

  Ahven said quietly, so only Jek could hear. “I cannot have a man beneath

  me, even a House Leader, who shows such disrespect. It weakens the

  soldiers’ confidence in me.”

  Jek found himself nodding, then paused. He would never be able to take

  one of Ahven’s comments about leadership the same way again.

  “He needn’t be killed,” Jek said quietly. “You could always just embarrass him. That seems to work well with . . .” he trailed off as he realized Ahven wasn’t watching his lips. The king’s eyes were instead focused on something in the distance.

  Jek turned, squinting against the late morning light, and made out

  another rider approaching, pass-flag flapping in the wind. Like the pre-

  vious messenger, the man approached Ahven’s pavilion directly. When he

  dismounted, it was obvious from his expression that he bore urgent—and

  probably unpleasant—news.

  Jek frowned. He didn’t recognize the messenger, a youthful, thin man,

  short enough that he could have been mistaken for a child. A long-distance messenger, chosen for his post because of his light body.

  “You aren’t from the battlefield,” Ahven said with surprise, just as Jek

  realized the same thing. “You came from Ral Eram.”

  “Yes, my majesty. I bring important news.”

  Ahven frowned, glancing at the generals. He obviously wasn’t pleased

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  that the messenger had sought him out in public. “Does this relate to the

  war against Alethkar?” Ahven asked carefully.

  “Not directly, my lord,” the wiry messenger said.

  Relief flashed briefly in Ahven’s eyes. “Then we will speak in private,” he said, gesturing toward the pavilion.

  The messenger nodded. “Yes, your majesty.”

  Jek trailed behind the two, and was not forbidden, though Ahven did

  glance at him. He probably expects to have to send me to kill someone, Jek realized as he pulled the tent flap closed.

  “Speak quietly,” Ahven said to the messenger, “and do not repeat your

  message to anyone else. If you have bad news, I will need to control it for the good of the army. We go to war on the morrow.”

  “I understand, my lord,” the messenger said.

  “Good. What is your news?”

  “It’s about your wife, my lord,” the man said uncomfortably. “She . . .

  appears to be in league with the Aleths.”

  Ahven actually paled. “What happened?”

  “She fled the city, my lord,” the messenger said. “She helped Lord

  Dalenar’s son and the other Aleth nobleman escape, then fled with them

  through the Oathgates.”

  Ahven reached out, as if looking for something to steady himself. His

  eyes flashed shock, then uncertainty, then finally rage—a deep, wild rage, so passionate that it made him tremble. Jek watched with interest, and the messenger took a step back in surprise.

  Ahven gritted his teeth, eyes wide, breathing deep, as a buried instability manifested. Jek had always wondered if it were there—a man such as Ahven

  could not be completely sane.

  “Where did she go?” Ahven finally forced out between hissing breaths.

  “We . . . we don’t know, my lord. The Oathgates have stopped working.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the messenger said.

  Ahven’s struggle to regain control of himself was manifest in his twisting expressions. Eventually, he pointed toward another room of the pavilion.

  “Go there,” he told the messenger, “and stay. Speak to no one.”

  E
ven as the messenger was bowing his response, Ahven stalked from

  the room with a hurried gait. Jek trailed behind, walking from the tent and passing the curious generals. Ahven walked only a short distance, toward

  a dark brown tent that Jek had never seen him enter.

  Jek frowned as they approached, realizing he didn’t even know the tent’s

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  purpose. It was in the lord’s section of the camp, but it flew no glyphs or other identification. It was tucked out of the way, off the main pathways, though it did bear a couple of soldiers as guards.

  The men bowed as Ahven approached, but the king didn’t acknowl-

  edge them. He threw back the entrance flaps with an impatient gesture,

  then stalked into the room beyond.

  Jek slipped in behind, and was met by a familiar sight. It must have been

  difficult to transport the large onyx block so far, but apparently Ahven

  thought the gain worth the effort. The three youthful seers sat atop the

  black stone, as they had in the temple back in Veden City. Except this time, one of them—the youngest boy—lay on his back instead of sitting. The boy

  was not moving. The other two sat, staring at their trickling sands and the patterns they made on the floor.

  “What is happening!” Ahven demanded without preface. “The girl is lost

  to me, and the Oathgates have collapsed.”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” said the oldest of the three seers, a girl of perhaps sixteen years. There was a powerful weariness to her voice, and more than

  a bit of frustration.

  “You don’t know?” Ahven all but screamed. “Tell me what you see!”

  “You’re pushing them too hard, my lord,” said a robed figure at the side.

  “They don’t have the—”

  Ahven held up a stiff hand, cutting the man off. “Speak!” he commanded

  the female seer.

  “It’s muddy,” she complained. “Someone is changing things.”

  “Someone?” Ahven asked. “This Windrunner you’ve warned me about?”

  “No,” the girl said. Jek stepped closer, trying to get a better look at the youths in the dark light. The air was musty with incense, light provided

  only by a dim brazier.

  “It’s not him,” the girl continued. “It must be a seer, one of us. Another one, somewhere.”