Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]
Page 84
matters than Merin.
Merin sighed, standing and walking over to the window. The ocean
below held tensets of ships—even more than the day before. Several more
vessels were visible in the distance, slowly approaching the city. The docks were infested with scrambling workers.
“What are they all doing here?” Merin wondered.
“The ships?” Renarin asked from his bench beside the window. “That’s
the Lakhenran fleet. It’s obviously gathering at King Ahven’s command.”
“Now?” Merin asked. “Isn’t it too late? Ahven has already attacked
Alethkar.”
“It does seem a bit tardy,” Renarin agreed. “I don’t know why they haven’t left already.”
“He didn’t expect to leave Ral Eram so early,” Shinri mumbled from the
other side of the room. “He planned to stay a few more weeks, until
the naval forces were in place.”
“Why?” Renarin asked curiously. “What made him leave early?”
“Lady Jasnah,” Shinri said. “She and some others escaped the city, and
Ahven feared that she might expose him. So he left early, hoping to attack King Elhokar’s forces before they were warned of the danger.”
Merin frowned, scanning the collected fleet. He knew little about
navies—the first time had seen the ocean had been when the Aleth armies
marched passed the Point of the Sea of Chomar on their way to Prallah.
“What good will a navy do?” he asked. “I mean, the fighting will take place inland, won’t it?”
“Yes,” Renarin said, standing and leaning against the windowsill beside
him. “However, the Lakhenran troops those ships hold are equally as
important as the vessels themselves. There are at least four tenset transports out there—they could land an army large enough to provide serious flanking danger. Then, once the troops are off-loaded, the ships themselves can sail the coast and make certain Alethkar doesn’t receive any support from Aleth Pralir or Thalenah. Help will have to land on the other side of the Sea of Chomar, which will create a delay of at least two months.”
Merin’s frown deepened. He glanced at Renarin, speaking in a lower
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voice. “Renarin, we can’t delay any longer. We have to get this information to Lord Dalenar.”
“I agree,” Renarin said cheerily. “Have you decided to try and escape,
then?”
“What do you think?”
Renarin shrugged. “It’s up to you. You’re the ranking nobleman—that
means you’re in charge.”
Merin froze. “What?” he hissed, shooting a glance back at Shinri. He kept his voice low, so she couldn’t listen in with her judgmental ears. “Renarin, I’m not in charge. You are.”
“I’m not a Shardbearer,” he said. “You outrank me.”
“So?”
“So people won’t listen to me,” Renarin said. “I have a reputation, even
this far south. Everyone knows my father, and they know me by association.
I’m no leader of men—I don’t pay enough attention to them, and I can’t
speak in the ways that inspire loyalty. I’m no warrior, Merin. No, you’re in charge. When you decide to leave this cell, we will go.”
Merin shook his head. “Renarin, I can’t. I . . .” he trailed off, trying to gauge his own emotions. How could he explain the guilt he had felt while
imprisoned in Ral Eram . . . the guilt he still felt?
“I don’t want to decide,” Merin finally said. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Renarin. I thought I did—I thought I was living in a story, that I was some kind of hero, like in the ballads. But heroes don’t betray their lords, and don’t let their friends ride to battle alone. Don’t let them die alone . . .”
“Leadership isn’t about choosing right all the time, Merin,” Renarin
replied quietly. “It’s about accepting consequences. Surely Bajerden’s words taught you that much. How many recitations of The Way of Kings did you listen to?”
“A lot,” Merin said. “But I found the book kind of boring.”
Renarin smiled. “It is. But it’s true anyway.”
Merin sighed, then he glanced at Renarin. “Who are you to tell me about
responsibility? You’re trying to avoid making decisions too.”
“I’m not a Shardbearer,” Renarin said, “nor am I a Windrunner.”
Merin paused. Windrunner. He wasn’t certain how to handle that
comment. The stories spoke of Windrunners and the other Epellion—
Stonewards, Dustbringers, and the others—with a tone reserved for the
greatest of heroes. Merin didn’t belong in their midst—especially after
what he had let happen to Aredor.
“I don’t know, Renarin,” he said sickly. “It’s more than just making bad
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decisions. I still don’t know what is right. Should I have gone with Aredor at first? Maybe he would still be alive. Should I have remained firm and
stayed behind? If I had, then I would be at Lord Dalenar’s side, defending Alethkar instead of sitting in a cell far to the south. I wavered in between, and I still don’t know which decision would have been right.”
“There was a third decision,” Renarin said. “The one you did make—
leaving afterward, trying to find a way to bring Aredor back with you. If
you hadn’t made that decision, then we wouldn’t have been able to help
Lady Shinri.”
“Help her?” Merin asked. “Renarin, we kidnapped her.”
Renarin shrugged. “This was the right place to come, Merin. Lakhenran
was the best choice of many.”
“But why?”
Renarin shrugged. “The Almighty curse me if I know.”
Merin closed his eyes, leaning against the window sill and feeling the
breeze from without. It was colder here in the south, but pleasantly so.
“Merin,” Renarin said encouragingly, “you’re doing fine. It’s natural to
think of past decisions—that will help you understand how to choose
better in the future. However, don’t let your worries make you useless in the present—especially if there are current decisions you need to be making.”
“Like what?” Merin asked. “Like whether or not I should take my Blade
and cut down those poor men who have been assigned to guard us?”
“That’s one decision you could make,” Renarin said. “However, I think
there’s something more important you need to consider. I think, perhaps,
it’s time to ask yourself if you really want to be a nobleman. Do you?”
Merin stood quietly for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “It seems like
a ridiculous question, doesn’t it? Who wouldn’t want to be a Shardbearer?
But . . .”
“Being a lord isn’t about carrying a Blade,” Renarin said. “Though I
don’t think I understood that until I lost my own. It can’t just be about
the sword, Merin—otherwise any fool who managed to get a Blade would
automatically become a good leader. No, there has to be more. In the end,
I think it’s all about decisions. A spearman doesn’t have to make them; he can wait until he’s told what to do. A lord has to be willing to decide—and not just for himself, but for others as well.”
Merin nodded quietly.
“You were given a Blade,” Renarin said, “but I don’t think you ever really decided to be a Shardbearer. It’s more than loyalty. It’s more than doing
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what Lord Dalenar tells you. It’s about doing what you think is best, even if there isn’t anyone else there to give comm
ands.”
There was an unspoken suggestion in those words. Decide now. What will it be? Lord or citizen? Ever since that first day on the battlefield, Merin had been trying to figure out what his place was. No one seemed to be able to
tell him exactly what he should be doing.
And it didn’t appear that anyone was going to.
“Renarin,” he said slowly, still leaning on the sill and looking out the
window. “Do you think the reason we came here might have something to
do with those ships?”
Renarin turned speculatively. “I wondered that myself,” he said. “Perhaps.
Knowledge of the fleet’s numbers and position would certainly be valuable
information for the Aleth forces to receive.”
“And if the ships never left at all?” Merin asked.
Renarin paused for a second, then he shrugged. “That would be even
better, obviously.”
Merin nodded, standing. “All right, then. Let’s go.” The smoke appeared
in his hand almost without conscious summoning. Ten heartbeats. The
Blade fell into his fingers as he crossed the room toward the door.
Lady Shinri stood. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
Merin ignored her. “Who rules Lakhenran on King Ahven’s behalf?” he
asked Renarin, pausing before the door to their rooms.
“A council of regents,” Renarin said. “Three men, each one representing
one of the Lakhenran houses who allied with Vedenar during the invasion.”
“Traitors, then,” Merin surmised.
Renarin nodded. “They are not well-loved by the Lakhenran people.”
Merin nodded.
“Merin, what are you planning . . . ?” Shinri asked again, her voice
apprehensive.
Their door was locked, of course. Merin raised his Blade, then with three
strikes cut it off of its hinges and bolt. He kicked it, and the oaken portal fell outward, crashing to the stones outside with a single, vibrant crack.
A guard stood on either side of the doorway, their terrified, yet unsur-
prised, expressions proving that they had expected Merin’s attack to come
eventually. They drew their weapons with nervous hands, and Merin could
see a third man dashing down the hillside toward the center of town.
One of the soldiers raised his sword threateningly. Merin sheared it in
half.
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“Take me to the council of regents,” Merin said. “I need to speak with
them.”
The soldier stared back with a mixture of defiance and worry, catching
Merin’s eyes. The move was obvious enough that Merin wasn’t surprised
when the second man tried to attack him from the side. A swipe of the
Shardblade divided that man’s blade from its hilt as well.
Merin raised his Blade toward the first man’s chest. He was an older
solider, greying, probably chosen for guard duty because of his age.
“I won’t take you,” the man said in thickly-accented Aleth.
Merin paused. Maybe the man’s age wasn’t the only reason he had been
given the duty. Merin eyed the second man, who looked equally resolute.
They’ve had plenty of time to consider this moment. These men have been ready to die for three days.
“Oh, this is foolishness,” Lady Shinri snapped from behind. “I know the
way. Stop terrorizing Kalden and Chanmed.”
Merin paused, lowering his Blade as Shinri pushed past him. “How do
you know their names?”
She gave him a flat look, weakening his newfound resolve. “They have
been bringing our meals for the last three days, Merin. One doesn’t have to be all that observant to listen when men speak to one another.”
Merin blushed as Shinri started down the hill, walking in the same
direction as the departed soldier. Merin and Renarin followed behind, as
did the two unarmed, and slightly confused, soldiers.
Merin kept a wary eye behind as they walked. Renarin, however, still
looked more thoughtful than worried.
“Do you think this is too drastic?” Merin asked in a low voice as they
walked.
Renarin shrugged. “We couldn’t wait forever, and this is certainly the
most direct way to free ourselves. I am a bit curious to see how you intend to get us out of the city alive, though.”
The city sloped down toward the ocean. The valley might have been
called a lait, but it was a bit too broad. A wide riverbed ran through the center of the city, its dry banks hinting that the river was usually far thicker than the current summer trickle. The people Merin passed were Kanaran,
but their clothing felt oddly . . . informal. Almost more like bedclothing than formal outfits. They showed far too much skin on both sexes, and
there was something else very odd. It took Merin a moment to realize
what it was.
No cloaks. None of the people wore cloaks. This was almost strange
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enough to make him pause in place. He slowed, studying the streetgoers—
who, in turn, watched his hustling pace with curious expressions. It was
true. Not a one of them wore a cloak. In Alethkar, even the poorest of
peasants owned a cloak—a starving man would sell his shoes before he sold
his cloak. Yet here, no one seemed to bother with the garment. The absence only added to the sense of indecency; without cloaks, the people seemed
almost . . . naked.
Merin blushed, hurrying forward, his masculine stride allowing him
to quickly catch Shinri, who—despite her hurry—maintained a graceful,
proper stride.
“Where?” Merin asked, glancing backward. Only one of the guards was
still tailing them; the other had disappeared somewhere, likely to seek
reinforcements.
“Not far,” Shinri said. “That building ahead.”
The structure in question was a massive golden dome. As they approach ed,
Merin could see signs of decay. It wasn’t that the building was in poor
maintenance—the doors still hung firmly, and the stone was in good
repair. However, what had once obviously been intricate reliefs had been
allowed to fall prey to crom buildup, the once-delicate features melding
together beneath a uniform stone patina. Where there once might have
been Awakened embossings, there was now simple white-washed stone.
A group of about ten soldiers was gathering near the entrance. Merin
recognized one member of the group as the guard who had fled. Oddly, none
of the men were Shardbearers—a fact both comforting and disturbing. He
could probably take all ten by himself, though it would be a close fight.
Without Shardplate, a group of ten trained soldiers was large enough to
be of appreciable danger.
Merin’s Blade still rested in his hand. Shinri paused, then glanced ap-
prehensively toward Merin as he strode past her to face the soldiers. Only two of the men were noblemen, but the eight spearmen could prove even
more deadly, their spears affording them longer reach. Merin stood for a
moment, listening to his opponents shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze.
What now? He asked himself. Fight my way in?
“Merin,” Renarin said quietly, stepping up beside him, “these men aren’t
our enemies.”
“They kept us captive,” Merin replied.
“And didn’t turn us over to Vedenar,” Renarin said.
“
I need to speak with the council of regents,” Merin said, eyeing the
soldiers. He could see the nervous breaths puffing from their lips.
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“They’ll never let a hostile Shardbearer in to see their rulers,” Renarin
said. “This is a captured nation—no Lakhenran warrior is allowed a Shard-
blade of his own. If they let you in, you could slaughter all three regents and their guards before anyone could stop you.”
Merin gritted his teeth. It was a good argument, of course. It was hard
to trust a man while he proverbially held a Shardblade at your neck. But,
the alternative was to . . .
Merin looked down at his Blade. It can’t just be about the sword . . .
Merin stepped forward, causing a wrinkle of apprehension in the soldiers,
then rammed his Blade into the ground. “You,” he said, pointing at their
former prison guard—he knew the man spoke Aleth. “If I let you confiscate
my Blade for the duration of the meeting, will you take me in to see the
regents?”
The man started. He blinked a few times. “Excuse me?” he asked, as if
uncertain that he had interpreted Merin’s words correctly.
Merin repeated his request. The guard’s confusion became shock, and he
slowly turned to his companions and said something in a language Merin
didn’t understand.
“That . . . isn’t exactly what I thought you would do,” Renarin noted.
“Do you have any idea how unorthodox a move it is to let a stranger hold
your Blade?”
Merin glanced at his weapon. Gone from his fingers only a few moments,
he already felt an itching desire to grab it back and dismiss it. When he had thought it gone, taken from him, the sense of despair had been so painful
that he didn’t even want to consider what would happen if he lost it again.
He hadn’t even named the Blade yet—he was supposed to do that when the
Bonding completed, but he hadn’t been able to determine a suitable title.
He’d wanted to ask Lord Dalenar for advice . . .
Assuming he lets me keep it, Merin thought sourly. Perhaps it was better to lose the Blade now to treachery. No, he immediately thought. Better not to lose it at all.
The soldier reached forward with a timid hand, picking up the Blade
uncertainly, as if waiting for a trap. He hefted the weapon, and Merin