Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

  Stilling her nerves, Shinri rose. Days spent in contemplation had deter-

  mined that she had only one chip to play. Hopefully, it would be enough.

  Merin glanced at her as she approached, then turned back toward his

  contemplation of the ocean. The blue sea was dotted with ships, the other

  four tenset vessels of the fleet floating around their flagship. Smaller vessels scuttled between the ships, delivering messages or shifting supplies.

  Now, standing closer, she could see that Merin’s face was even more

  troubled than usual. He stared toward the ships, not toward the goal ahead.

  “They keep looking toward me for instructions,” he said.

  Shinri paused. Was he asking her advise? “Shouldn’t they seek your

  leadership?”

  “I don’t see why they should,” he said. “Who am I to have anything

  important to say?”

  “You are their savior,” Shinri said carefully.

  Merin snorted. “I didn’t bring them salvation, Shinri; I just killed some

  men. It’s nothing special—that’s what I’ve been trained to do. If they want a savior, they should look to the monk who trained me in dueling, or perhaps the sergeants who taught me the spear.”

  “You did more than just kill people, Merin,” Shinri said. “You gave the

  Lakhenrans courage. You gave them a will to fight, then convinced them

  to sail north to face their enemy. And you could quite possibly save your

  own kingdom in the process.”

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  Merin didn’t appear persuaded by her logic. He leaned against the

  gunwale pensively, tapping his finger against the wood. He was wearing

  the jade bracelet again, she noticed—he had gone without it for several days after the battle, but now it was back.

  “Tamar is king now,” Merin said. “He leads this people, not me. Yet

  he keeps sending messengers to ask my will for the fleet—as if I would

  know about water foraging or scouting processes. He wants my input on

  everything. It almost seems like he wants my approval. Do you think,

  perhaps, that he was beneath Veden command so long that he feels

  inadequate leading on his own?”

  “Perhaps,” Shinri said, “but not likely.”

  “Why, then?” Merin asked. “Why keep looking to me?”

  “Well,” Shinri said. “You did kind of appoint him as king.”

  “No I didn’t,” Merin complained.

  “Sure you did,” Shinri said. “What did you think you were doing when

  you walked up and ‘bestowed’ that Shardblade upon him? Everyone had just

  seen the way you fought—there are already whispers of your being an Epoch

  Warrior, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find Renarin behind them. Either

  way, you set yourself up as something greater than a monarch—something

  capable of off-handedly granting a king a Shardblade, then commanding

  him to lead his people at your will. And you’re surprised that now he thinks he has to seek your approval?”

  Merin blushed at the comment, glancing down toward the passing waves

  below. He was so . . . earnest. That didn’t stop him from being her enemy, but it did make him somewhat more tolerable. A part of her—a very small

  part, true, but it was there nonetheless—was reticent to take advantage of his weaknesses.

  However, she felt far more terrified of returning to Ahven than she felt

  guilty for using Merin. “There is something I must . . . speak to you about,”

  she said carefully, trying to make her voice sound weak and feminine.

  Merin looked up, sensing a change in the conversation. “This is about

  our returning to Alethkar, isn’t it?” he guessed.

  Shinri nodded.

  “I have already promised you that you will be in no danger,” he said. “I

  won’t bring you into the war, Shinri, but I have to see that you are kept safe.

  I can only do that if you are here, with the fleet.” Where I can keep track of you, his voice implied.

  “I just . . .” she trailed off, allowing a little bit of her fear to show

  in her eyes. It came out more forcefully than she had expected, her

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  honest emotions boiling free. She was surprised to feel a tear run down

  her cheek.

  “What?” Merin asked with alarm, perking up.

  “I can’t go back to him, Merin,” Shinri whispered.

  “Who?” Merin asked. “King Ahven?”

  Shinri nodded. “I . . . Merin, that man took me as his wife. He claimed

  me, made me his own, and forced himself upon me.”

  Merin paled, his Aleth sensibilities rung by her blunt words. She exagger-

  ated, of course, but he needn’t know that she had gone wil ingly that first time.

  “I can’t go back,” she said intensely. “I can’t be near him. Even with

  your promises of safety, I spend nights awake, terrified. If he defeats you, if he destroys the Aleth armies, he will come for me. Whatever keep

  you sequester me in, it won’t be strong enough to resist his rage. He was

  harsh to me before, when he thought me subservient. If he catches me now,

  after I defied him and tried to run . . .”

  She paused, looking up and meeting his eyes. “He hurt me before, Merin,”

  she whispered. “If he finds me again, it will be worse. Far worse. If you

  bring me to Alethkar with you, then what he does to me will be partially

  your fault.”

  This was her chip. She could see the struggle of honor within him, the

  weight of her words pressing against his desire to help Alethkar. He was

  a good man, and good men—unfortunately—were often the easiest to

  manipulate.

  He opened his mouth to respond, but Shinri cut him off with a calculated

  plea. “Send me to Thalenah,” she asked. “On one of the smaller scout ships.

  I know King Amelin; he is a friend. You won’t be losing me—you’ll be

  putting me in a safe location. A fortified island, well-patrolled and well-defended. I can plead Alethkar’s need before the king. He will listen to me, and perhaps send support.”

  Merin considered her words. “I don’t know . . .” he finally said.

  “You don’t know?” she said. “You would use me. Just like him. At least he only took my body—you want my powers too.”

  “No!” Merin objected.

  “Then let me go,” she challenged. “Prove your honor, Lord Kholin. Prove

  that you deserve the respect this fleet has seen fit to give you.” And now, the most powerful words of all—at least where Merin is concerned. “Ask yourself, Merin. What would Lord Dalenar tell you to do?”

  Merin closed his eyes. Finally he took a deep breath and turned away

  from her. “Very well,” he agreed.

  chapter 74

  TALN 12

  When the army made camp for the evening, Taln went searching

  for height. High land wasn’t hard to find in Roshar, this world of

  barren stone. Though the winds pushed the land toward uniformity, the

  rains formed gulches and crags. Stone crumbed to dust, which in turn blew

  off with the winds and mixed with the crom minerals to harden into rock

  once again. The resulting land was broken, full of cliffs and hills.

  Taln found his way to a small plateau, one only a short distance from the

  army but hidden from its eyes. The overlook let him see into the distance, across farmlands and hills.

  The grim stone still seemed a harsh sight to Taln, even after all these
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  years. Where the common people saw fertile hills, perfect for planting their grain polyps, Taln saw only the lifeless rock. To him, fertility would always imply greenness. Trees and grasses. Buds, fruits, and flowers. Color. The

  memories seemed so real—even after three millennia, he could recall stark

  images from Lhar. Other events faded, but his home—a place of peaceful

  waves and temperate rains—remained.

  Perhaps the image was so strong because it was simply the delusion his

  mind was most fond of imagining.

  His doubt felt like a betrayal. Yet how could he not wonder? Perhaps

  there was a reason the Sign didn’t work. Perhaps there was a reason he

  couldn’t find the power he kept reaching to touch. If he was no Herald,

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  then there was no power. No lost nahel bond, no missing brethren. Just a confused man with some very vivid delusions.

  But could madness fabricate such realism? He remembered his mother’s

  face. He remembered and knew the other Heralds—not just by appearance,

  but by their habits, their interests, and their favorite phrases. He remembered standing on a hilltop, watching the great city of Kanar fall to the

  powers of Awakening. He saw Khothen, not as stories or songs, but as they

  were. He knew their spindly limbs and their eyeless heads—heads split by a bone ridge that made the creatures appear as if they wore a perpetually

  wide, malicious smile. Taln had fought and died. He could remember the

  pain of crushed limbs and ribs. Could madness imitate the memories of

  an entire lifetime?

  What of the things he knew? The passage beneath Ral Eram, the

  location of the nine Shardblades? His ability to fight? These were not

  the possessions of a random farmer from Riemak. But could they have

  come from somewhere else? Forgotten experience fighting as a mercenary?

  Lost maps or other texts, read during a time before the madness came?

  What did he really know that couldn’t, conceivably, have come from either

  a book or a delusion?

  He could see the darkness lurking on the horizon, and he welcomed

  the coming highstorm. He stood and walked to the edge of the plateau,

  standing on its very lip, waiting as the highstorm approached. He raised

  his arms before it, Glyphting held in a firm grip, and let the winds crash into him with sudden, icy force.

  “Why?” Taln demanded of the gale. “Why must you make me question?”

  Rain splashed his face, water quickly soaking clothing and skin.

  “You said we took this task upon ourselves!” he challenged. “You said you

  would grant our wish. You warned that we would bear our burdens alone,

  but you never said you would take away our self-confidence!”

  The storm, the voice of the Almighty, gave only more rain and winds

  as an answer.

  “How can I be stalwart if I don’t know who I am!” Taln screamed.

  “How can I be determined when I am uncertain of my own sanity? How

  can I save a people if I don’t trust the truths I teach? We know the error of our decision. Must you prove it further? Is not the time between Returns

  enough? Must you steal from us our short time of life as well!”

  The rain fell, snapping against his face and proffered chest.

  “They’re your people too!” Taln yelled. “Would you abandon me now?

  Would you abandon them?”

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  Wind tore at his cloak. No answer came.

  Eventually Taln raised his arms, gripping Glyphting in wet palms. His

  dueling form was as old as man’s time on Roshar; it represented three

  thousand years of perfecting and practice. Men did not live who could face it in battle. He fell into it now, swinging his blade through sheets of rain, sparring as if with the winds themselves.

  He practiced for some time, seeking solace in the forms he had used so

  long. But even this familiar activity brought no peace. Were his forms the tool of an ancient Herald, or just the fabrications of a crazed mind? He

  swung Glyphting vengefully, spraying drops of water into the wind, only to have them blown back upon him again. Eventually he lowered Glyphting,

  his breath coming in gasps from the wild swinging. He sighed, turning

  to seek shelter.

  And discovered that he was not alone on the lonely plateau.

  He looked upon her, standing by herself, and knew the source of much

  of his frustration. His questions wouldn’t have held as much weight if he

  hadn’t known of the reward a right answer could bring. She stood in

  the rain, dark hair pulled from braids to streak across her face. Somehow, she had escaped her watchful guards—a fact not half as disconcerting as her ability to approach him unheard. Even in the midst of a storm, he should

  have noticed her arrival. He had been far too absorbed in his sparring.

  She stepped forward, her wet brown sencoat tied at the front, sleeves

  dripping streams of water. Her face, stripped of facepaint by the rains, was pale and concerned.

  Taln let Glyphting’s tip tap against the stone below. The winds blew over

  the cliffside behind him, buffeting Taln with one vengeful burst before

  tapering slightly as the storm lulled.

  “Taln . . .” Jasnah said. “You should come back to the camp. Lord Aneazer

  brought tents. You could escape the rains.” Her voice was weak above the

  sound of the falling rain.

  Taln shook his head, turning back over the cliffside, toward the now-

  darkened farmlands below. “No,” he said. “I have to think. I have to know

  why I live when my brethren are dead. There don’t seem to be an answers.”

  Jasnah paused. “Perhaps there are answers,” she said. “Just not the ones

  you want to find.”

  Taln looked back at her. She looked . . . apprehensive, as if her words

  might have set off something within him. She still thought him mad. Of course she does. You’ve given her no reason to think otherwise—in fact, you’ve begun to question it yourself. Still, her uncertainty hurt him. It was painful

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  to see the doubt in her eyes, to sense that she didn’t trust him, and never could—not as long as she thought him insane.

  “Taln,” she said, “what if there is another answer? What if that answer

  lies with a warrior from Riemak? A mercenary or wandering spearman

  like those we’ve gathered as we’ve traveled? A good man, a knowledgeable

  man. One who taught himself to read somehow. Perhaps . . . a general or

  a leader of some sort. A man to whom something very terrible happened,

  something he doesn’t want to remember.

  “What if, instead of remembering his own life, this man remembered

  stories he had heard from his childhood. Stories of heroes and gods, stories of Heralds who seemed beyond the pains of normal men. He knew of the

  Holy City and its statues. He went there, and within the cracks of the floor discovered a Shardblade. This became his proof, the sign that he was indeed a Herald. And so, he left his old life, striving to warn of the Return. To try and stop others from hurting, so that maybe he could stop the hurt within

  himself . . .”

  She looked up at him guiltily, her lashes and brows dripping rainwater,

  as if she had exposed his secrets for the world to see. If there was any truth to her postulations, however, Taln could not sense it.

  “I . . . don’t know, Jasnah,” he said.

  “You can’t remember anything?” s
he pressed. “Brother Lhan says that

  often when a man loses his . . . memories, it’s because of something terrible he experienced.”

  Taln turned from her. “You once asked me what happens to me when

  I lose control during those times when I feel close to despair. I see fires around me. Everything burns, and I feel as if something dark is approaching—something I must never let touch me. A terrible, monstrous dark

  creature. And I hear screaming. I hear mad, terrible howls, the screams of some wretch being put through inhuman agony.” He looked back, meeting

  her eyes. “I recognize the voice which screams, Jasnah. It is my own.”

  She raised her arms slightly toward her chest, her slight gasp lost in the waning highstorm sounds. Her face was . . . disturbed? Concerned? Some

  of both?

  Taln turned away. And then she was there, crossing the distance between

  them in a couple of steps and grabbing ahold of him with wet arms. The

  warmth of her body was an alien feeling against his cold skin. He let

  Glyphting slide from his fingers, the Blade clanging softly to the stone,

  and wrapped his arms around her.

  “Come to Alethkar,” she pled, her cheek pressed against the wet cloth

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  of his chest. “Come and help me drive away the invaders. I will see you

  rewarded with a city befitting your honor and a title to match your nobility.

  Forget about the things you have dreamed, Taln. Don’t let them hurt you

  any longer. Come back. Come back with me.”

  “And Meridas?”

  “Meridas can rot,” Jasnah spat.

  Taln closed his eyes, breathing deeply the wet air. Most men could ask

  nothing more than this. A kingdom to honor and a woman to hold. But

  could he? Forget the things you have dreamed . . . “Could it all really be a dream?” he asked quietly. “And you my awakener?”

  She stiffened slightly at the word. Yes, she knew what it was to hide from one’s self. If his memories made him who he was—if his memories gave

  him purpose—what would he be without them?

  You would have her. He had forgotten—perhaps intentionally—how much he missed that. Upon Jezrien’s request, the Heralds had forsaken themselves of intimate relationships. They needed to remain clear-minded, able to give their lives in a moment. They could have no bonds to this world, lest it