What did you do? they had accused Merin. But he hadn’t been the one.
What had Shinri done? She couldn’t remember much—only peace, and
then . . . she had been yanked away by Renarin, pulled through the gate.
When she’d closed the gate, her mind had been a blur of anger and longing.
And, the truth was, she’d never closed an Oathgate before. Perhaps she had done something wrong.
She faintly remembered a breaking, a reaction from the gate to her being
pulled away. Had that been part of it?
“I should have looked further,” Renarin mumbled, his eyes growing
slightly troubled as he walked. Down below, Merin had nearly reached
the docks. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to him, Shinri, but I
fear the worst.”
“And what of me?” she challenged. “Are the things you saw the reason
you kidnapped me?”
He didn’t look down with shame as she had expected. He had changed,
somehow, during the last few months. There was a hint of guilt in his eyes, true, but an equal amount of determination. “You, Shinri . . . you affected
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 617
everything I saw. I didn’t bring you because of any specific foretelling, but because of all of them. In the times to come, the one who has your aid will have a great advantage. You are more valuable than any Shardblade—more
valuable, perhaps, than an entire army.”
“There are only ten Oathgates, Renarin,” Shinri said flatly. “Being able
to open them is an advantage, true, but not as great a one as you imply.
Once the various kings understand that the gates are no longer secure, the advantage of controlling me will decrease measurably.”
Renarin shook his head. “There’s more, Shinri. There has to be. Some-
thing beyond just the Oathgates.”
Shinri frowned. His tone implied that whatever it was ‘beyond’ her
power over the Oathgates, he wanted to control it. “I expected better of
you, Renarin,” she said icily.
He blushed, showing a hint of the old Renarin, then hurried her forward.
They reached the docks a few moments later.
Merin couldn’t let himself stop. The weight of what he intended to
do pushed him forward, the momentum of the crowd rolling behind him
like a physical force. The winds above were straight and steady, like a tenset overlapping rivers in the sky.
“They’re on that ship, my lord,” one of the soldiers said, nodding him
toward a particularly ornate vessel.
Merin nodded. Can’t stop. If I think too long . . . He strode forward, walking up the gangplank toward the ship’s deck.
A group of confused sailors watched him approach. They had stopped
their work, the sudden dockside crowd drawing their attention. As Merin
crested the plank and stepped onto the ship’s deck, he could feel them
studying him, marking his clothing—which, despite being worn from his
extended captivity, was still obviously that of a nobleman. They muttered to each other in their unfamiliar tongue, and he could feel them connecting
the color of his cloak to the glyph on its back.
He summoned his Blade to help move the inferences along. The weapon’s
appearance sparked another bout of conversation among the sailors, and
one of them soon scampered off toward a cabin doorway.
Barely five anxious heartbeats passed before a group of cloaked forms
strode from the cabin. Their heraldry was white, their clothing rich but
bearing the typical Veden blockishness. Their ages varied from youthful to distinguished, and each wore the same square-cut beard favored by Veden
fashion.
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Three of the five wore Shardplate. Merin exhaled slowly in disappoint-
ment—he had hoped he wouldn’t have to face that particular disadvantage.
You can do this, he told himself. Just face them one at a time. Five duels in a row, against far more experienced swordsmen, three of them in Plate . . .
Gritting his teeth resolutely, he lifted his Blade and pointed it at the
Shardbearer whose Plate looked the most lavish, an older man with a
grizzled, commanding face. It was probably best to face their most skilled man first, when Merin was still fresh. Afterward, perhaps the others would be honorable enough to let him don the defeated man’s Plate before the
next bout began.
Assuming, of course, Merin won the first duel.
Uncertain whether or not the man spoke Aleth, Merin fell into a dueling
posture.
The five Vedens regarded each other with perplexed eyes. “What is this?”
one of them finally asked in heavily-accented Aleth.
“I challenge you,” Merin said. “I am Merin Kholin, Shardbearer of the
court of Lord Dalenar Kholin.”
“You challenge who?” asked a younger Shardbearer in silver and white
Plate.
“All of you,” Merin said. “One at a time, beginning with the older man in
green and white.”
The men regarded each other with bemused expressions. The older man
at the front said something to his companions, and the group laughed,
glancing at Merin derisively.
The older man waved his companions back, stepping forward and
summoning a burst of white smoke from his palm. Blades were raised,
and the duel began.
Sweat wetted Merin’s grip, and the sudden reality of what he was doing
struck him. Aredor couldn’t protect him this time. There was no refuge of
a friendly army, no companion at his side to watch for enemy spears. He
was alone.
His enemy studied him carefully, wind curling around his form. This
will be my first true duel, Merin realized nervously. He glanced down at his bracelet. He felt . . . like he was cheating somehow by watching the
winds. This was no ad-hoc battle, this was a formal duel. There were rules, Protocol.
Vasher would tell him it didn’t matter, that he should use every available advantage. But what would Lord Dalenar say?
Merin didn’t need to think very long at that question. As his opponent
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 619
advanced, still watching, Merin carefully unclipped the bracelet and let
the air return to painful clarity around him. He could almost hear Vasher
cursing him a fool in the back of his mind, but . . . what he did felt right.
He barely had time to stuff the bracelet into his cloak pocket before his
opponent struck.
The Veden attacked with a series of sharp, precise blows. Merin hadn’t
studied the Dueling Forms enough to know which style the man used,
but it was very efficient, moving with blurring—yet controlled—speed.
Fortunately, Merin’s training knew what to do even if he consciously did
not. Merin was surprised to find himself in one piece at the end of the
exchange.
The Veden’s eyes took on an appreciative glint as he withdrew slightly,
still studying Merin. The next exchange came with even more vigor, and
again Merin surprised himself by parrying or dodging each blow. He even
returned a slash of his own, smacking his Blade against his opponent’s
forearm.
The blow would have sheared off a regular man’s hand, but it struck
only a glancing blow on the Plate—not even making a proper dent. His
opponent moved with Plate-enhanced strength, whipping his forearm to
the side as
Merin connected, pushing back Merin’s Blade and throwing
Merin off-balance.
Merin didn’t try to maintain his footing, instead allowing himself to
be pushed back. The Veden smirked, falling into an aggressive stance and
pressing his advantage. The fight began in earnest.
And again, Merin felt it—the old feeling of inadequacy. Merin just wasn’t
good enough. When fighting the assassins with Aredor, or even when he
had sparred with Vasher’s friends, Merin had felt the same way. The forms
Vasher had taught him felt flawed—they just didn’t quite fit. They hadn’t
become intuitive enough, Merin knew. The weren’t a part of him.
Because of that he would lose this duel. And because of his loss, the
Aleth armies would soon find themselves flanked by an unexpected foe.
The kingdom could very well fall because Merin hadn’t managed to learn
his dueling forms well enough.
He was already weakening—each blocked blow was delivered by
Plate- enhanced arms. He wouldn’t be able to—
The opening came so quickly that Merin didn’t consider. He spun away
from the Veden’s latest blow, an uncharacteristically wide strike. Though
Merin couldn’t see the wind, he could almost feel it as he spun, letting the motion propel his Blade.
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The Veden turned too late. Merin’s Blade smashed into the side of the
man’s helmet, marring the beautifully-guilded metal.
The form knew what to do next. As the Veden stumbled in surprise,
Merin continued his motion, spinning one more time and delivering a
second blow at exactly the same angle as the first. Air whistled around his Blade as it approached the Veden’s head.
At the last moment, Merin turned the Blade down and let it crack
against the helmet in a slightly lower position. The already off-balance
Veden stumbled to his knees, the wood groaning beneath him.
When the man re-oriented himself, he found Merin standing beside
him, Blade raised as if to strike the helm a third time. Both knew that
this time Merin wouldn’t avert the blow from the weakened section of
Shardplate.
“Yield,” Merin ordered.
The Veden glanced toward his own Blade, which had slipped from
dazed fingers. Then he eyed Merin’s upraised weapon. “I yield,” he hissed
in angered shame, glancing down at the deck.
Merin stepped back, shocked. I won. It felt like a fluke—there had been no careful planning, no strategy. He had simply seen an opening, and his
body had attacked reflexively. All of his opponent’s clever precision meant naught before Merin’s fortunate strike.
The aging Veden warrior obviously thought something similar. His eyes
were dark with anger as he stood and retrieved his Blade.
“I demand your Plate and Blade as spoils,” Merin said. “I’ll put the Plate on, then I’ll duel you,” he said, pointing at the younger man in silver and white.
The other four Shardbearers looked as stunned as Merin felt. Well, they
would each soon have an opportunity to focus their anger. Merin tried not
to think too hard about the fact that he still had four bouts to go. At least now he would be able to withstand a hit or two.
He glanced to the side to check on the status of his Shardplate. The
Veden man had only removed the broken helm. He made no move to take
off the rest, however. Instead, he was regarding Merin with a disgusted
look.
“I demand your Plate and Blade as . . .” Merin began, speaking slower.
He trailed off, however, as he saw the look in the man’s face.
Something was wrong. The Veden glanced at the other four, then growled
something in his native tongue. There was a brief moment of silence.
Then all four attacked at once.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 621
Merin cried out, screaming something about Protocol, but it was obvious
that these men had no intention of obeying etiquette. Merin ducked
backward as Shardblades began to appear, swinging at the first man who
came into range. The man’s Blade hadn’t appeared yet, but he wore Plate,
and he took the blow with an upraised arm—stalling Merin while the
others armed themselves. Anxious sailors ducked out of the way as Merin
tried to jump toward the gangplank, but the Veden in silver and white
rammed into Merin from the side, throwing him to the deck.
Merin grunted in pain, holding his Blade up to keep from cutting
himself as he slid across the slick wood, propelled into a half-tumble by
the Shardbearer’s blow.
Merin wheezed, trying to catch his breath. Smoke dissipated, and
soon all five men held glimmering Blades. Merin regarded them with
stupefaction, still amazed that they would so blatantly break Protocol.
Vasher’s disappointed voice seemed to whisper a condemnation to him.
You should have expected this. In battle, honor belongs to the victor. Men will do whatever they have to in order to win. Use every advantage . . .
Merin scrambled to his feet, lifting his Blade to block a blow while he
reached inside his cloak pocket.
As soon as his fingers touched jade, the winds returned to him.
He pushed away his foe, hurriedly clasped on the bracelet, then raised
his Blade to block a second attack. A third struck at him from the side,
and Merin’s Blade seemed to flow naturally into a parry, turning the man’s weapon.
Something happened that moment as he fought. The broad, exaggerated
swings Vasher had taught him had always seemed too wide to Merin—
almost as if they were supposed to be beautiful flourishes instead of attacks or parries. Yet facing down five men at once, Merin’s form seemed to take
on a new, flowing quality. It wasn’t just the wind—in fact, this didn’t seem to have anything to do with the wind at all. His wide swings kept multiple enemies at a distance, and the rounded flourishes helped each swipe curve
into the next, carrying Merin in a continuous and fluid defense.
Everything seemed to fit—all of the holes in his form, all of the incon-
sistencies and awkwardness. It had never been him after all. It had been
the form.
I’m an idiot. Vasher explained it to me once, and I never paused to think what he meant. He didn’t train me to duel.
He trained me to fight.
The winds spoke to him. Merin could feel them, could sense when
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bodies disturbed their flow. Incorporating this knowledge into his form,
he blocked attacks he couldn’t see. He moved smoothly from one strike
to another.
He stood squarely in the middle of five opponents—and for one graceful,
convergent moment, he fought them all at once.
“They broke protocol!” Shinri hissed.
Renarin nodded as if this were an expected event. They stood beside
the regents atop a nearby ship, one that sat just a bit higher in the water, affording them a view of Merin’s deck.
“But I know that man,” Shinri said. “Lord Denvashacha is one of the
most respected noblemen in Vedenar! His reputation is spotless!”
Renarin shook his head. “When this is over, he’ll just claim that Merin
broke Protocol first, and that he ordered the other Shardbearers forward
in retribution. That’s usually how it happens.”
> “But . . .” Shinri trailed off, forcing down her anger. “We have to do
something,” she said frantically, turning to run down the ramp.
Renarin caught her on the arm. It was an oddly tender gesture, but it
only reminded her of the last time he had touched her—the time when
he had grabbed her and pulled her free from the Oathgate’s control opal.
Kidnapping her.
She shook herself free, but Renarin had her attention. “Look,” he
requested.
She turned back toward the other ship, where poor Merin was so horribly
outnumbered. She expected to find him dead already.
Instead she was treated to a sight that left her standing stunned in the
cool southern winds. Merin stood at the exact center of a ring of Shard-
bearers, wearing no Plate, practically defenseless.
And he was winning anyway.
Or perhaps not winning. But he was certainly holding his own. The
five honorless Vedens struck at him repeatedly, their attacks showing
frustration. Yet Merin blocked each blow. Every strike, whether swung
alone or in tandem, was turned aside. Merin moved with surreal grace,
moving to parry each attack almost before it began. He spun, never facing
just one man, somehow never seeming to leave his back exposed. His were
not the motions of a man desperate; he bore none of the frantic tension
one would expect. Instead he fought with elegant superiority. Almost as if he weren’t flesh at all, but like . . .
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 623
“He moves like the winds themselves,” whispered Tamar, the Head
Regent, who stood beside her. “By the Almighty—he doesn’t just speak
like a king. He fights like one too.”
Merin was in trouble. He held his opponents at bay for the moment,
but it took the sum of his concentration and skills to do so.
And he was getting tired.
The combined power of Vasher’s dueling style and Merin’s ability to feel
the winds was great, but the Veden Shardbearers still had three suits of
Plate. Their blows shook his arm, and facing them all at once forced Merin to focus completely on defense. Eventually he would fail to block a blow.
In addition, there was still a slight problem with his form. He couldn’t
understand what it was. His parries would build toward a single, careful
attack—but each of these attacks was easily blocked. He felt that he was
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 86
