Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

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

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  They liked him, even when they first met him. He grew up in Callenhas, in

  the house next to my own, but he left when he was just a lad. He promised

  my sister he’d come back, and he did, some five years later. Said he’d spent the time training with a mercenary group—learning to fight, he said. He

  was tired of Callenhas being pushed around by any bandit or thief who

  decided to force us to give him a levy.

  “Well, he organized us and taught us. We learned to fight pretty well,

  I’d say. He married my sister. He was a smart one, Taven was. Said he’d

  learned to read with the mercenaries, from a woman who’d once been a

  noblewoman in Alethkar. He didn’t care that it was a woman’s art—to him,

  it was just another skill to learn. He had books too, my lady. I don’t know where he got them, but they were old. He found them fighting somewhere

  in Riemak, I suppose. Maybe the Holy City itself, do you think?”

  “I really don’t know,” Jasnah said. “Continue.”

  “Wel , he knew all kinds of strange things,” the peasant said. “Was always telling them to people, though they didn’t make any sense to us. Pretty

  random, those things he said and things he knew. But he did train us

  good—and he fought like nothing else, my lady. He was so good at it.

  Bandits soon learned to stay away from Callenhas, I’ll tell you that! Ten

  years he led our town, and we were beginning to think pretty good of

  ourselves. But then . . .”

  “Well?” Jasnah asked.

  “Well, the local despot—a real nasty man, named Kess. He decided he

  was tired of Callenhas ignoring his threats. He got together a lot of men—

  more than were even in our village—and he attacked. In the end, we just

  couldn’t stop them. Riemak’s a hard place, my lady. Seems like for every man who has a mind to work for his food, there are two men waiting to take it

  from him. They got through eventually, though Taven—he kil ed a number.

  “In the end, Kess left Taven alive. Killed my sister and Taven’s son,

  though. Killed them in an awful, brutal way, and made Taven watch. After

  that . . . well, Taven wasn’t the same, like I said. We learned to do what Kess said, but Taven—he just left. Walked away in a daze, and none of us had a

  mind to stop him—not with Kess’s men watching us.

  “And, well, that’s about it. That was five years ago. I thought Taven dead for sure, until that day your army passed and I went out to see the Herald for myself. I don’t know what he did during those five years, but I really don’t think he recognized me. Taven wasn’t ever very good at pretending.”

  Jasnah nodded, closing her eyes. Oh, my deal, poor Taln. Is that what you

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  saw those times when your madness almost took you, the times where your eyes fuzzed, and you got that look of terror in your eyes? Was it her, being tortured?

  No wonder you wanted to forget.

  Jasnah opened her eyes. “Thank you, citizen . . .”

  “Praesh,” the man said.

  “You will be compensated, Citizen Praesh,” Jasnah promised. “But I

  do want you to keep quiet about these things. The army wanted a Herald,

  and your brother-in-law became one for them. I don’t want to taint their

  memory of him.”

  “Of course, my lady,” the man said. “But, if it pleases you . . .”

  “What?” Jasnah asked.

  “I didn’t come here for gems, my lady,” the man said, hands still twitching slightly. “I came for his body. You see, well, I want to make certain he’s properly taken care of.”

  “I will see to that,” Jasnah promised.

  “But—”

  “That is all, Citizen Praesh,” Jasnah said firmly.

  The man jumped slightly, then bowed and backed from the room.

  Jasnah turned to regard Taln’s slumbering corpse again. I don’t blame you for the lies, she finally decided, resting a hand on his shoulder. For, to you, I don’t think they really were lies. In fact, I think Brother Lhan was right. We could use a few more liars like you.

  Merin stepped quietly into the room. The battle was over, his armor

  removed, yet his arm still felt numb from his calling of the winds.

  Lord Dalenar still sat inside, cradling Renarin’s near-lifeless body.

  Because of the battle’s chaotic aftermath, the reunion—such that it was—

  had only happened a few minutes before. Dalenar had been warned, but

  that hadn’t made much of a difference.

  The great Tyrantbane, the king of Alethkar, was crying.

  Merin stood, embarrassed, in the doorway of the stone chamber, one

  of many in the Teth-Kanar palace. This is my fault. I didn’t cause Renarin’s injury, but I am responsible. That’s what Renarin himself taught me. It isn’t about choosing right, it’s about accepting the consequences for what you have done.

  “You saved my kingdom,” Dalenar whispered, not looking up from his

  son’s comatose face. “But you took my last son from me. I don’t know if I

  can reward you enough, and I don’t know if I can ever forgive you.”

  There was only one response—Merin had steeled himself for it weeks

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  before. He walked into the room, stepping firmly, and stuck his Shardblade into the ground at Dalenar’s feet.

  “You gave a command, many months ago,” Merin said. “You said that

  any who disobeyed would be stripped of Blade and rank. I accept your

  judgement.” He reached out and, clenching his teeth, knocked his opal

  free of the Blade.

  He would almost sooner have knocked the heart from his chest.

  He picked the black stone up off the ground, and put it in his cloak

  pocket. Dalenar’s cloak. That he did not intend to return.

  Merin turned, knowing there was no more to be said, and walked toward

  the doorway.

  “I do not demand this of you, Merin,” Dalenar said from behind.

  “No,” Merin said, turning. Dalenar had finally looked up at him. “But

  I believe honor does. Besides, I don’t think I was ever really that good at being a nobleman—or a soldier, for that matter. Not in my heart, at least.”

  “What will you do?” Dalenar asked.

  Merin paused. “Go back to my village,” he said. “Or perhaps find a

  different one—a place where I can become a farmer again. I think I need

  a break.”

  “I shall see that you have a horse,” Dalenar said, “and a constant supply

  of feed to keep it. Go with the thanks of Alethkar.”

  Merin nodded, and turned to leave. He couldn’t help noticing, however,

  that Dalenar didn’t seem to feel much sorrow at Merin’s abdication.

  To him, I will always be the one who persuaded his son to leave, then brought the boy back as a mindless invalid. Honor wouldn’t let him shun me for it, but it would let him hate me.

  It was better for both of them this way.

  On a sullen, misty morning, Shinri’s ship finally reached the Thalen

  docks.

  She stepped from the vessel, thankful for the firmness beneath her feet.

  Though she had come to enjoy the ocean, there was a rightness to the solid ground. It felt good to step upon it again.

  She paused, looking northward for a moment, pulling her cloak tight

  and staring across the open waters. She couldn’t see much through the fog.

  Eventual y, she turned and cal ed out to the dockmaster, asking him to send for a city guardsman. She had le
arned her lesson last time—she would not

  make King Amelin search for her this time.

  He came immediately. In fact, she was surprised at how quickly the

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  king made it to the docks. She had expected him to send a litter for her,

  but not to come in person. Yet after just a short period of waiting, she

  saw him emerge from the mist beside her ship, trailing his Awakener and

  stormkeeper councilors behind him.

  As soon as he saw her, he smiled, but his eyes grew troubled. “Shinri,

  it is you.”

  Shinri smiled. “King Amelin. I seem to recall you offering me sanctuary

  in Thalenah some time before. Is the proposal still in effect?”

  “Oh Shinri, child . . .” Amelin said. “Wife of King Ahven Vedenel.

  Elsecaller with power over the Oathgates themselves.”

  “Are those things problems?” Shinri asked hesitantly.

  “No,” King Amelin said sorrowfully. “But they are terrible, terrible

  advantages. The kind of advantages a king prays to receive, but then fears the Almighty might actually listen to him.” He sighed. “But, come, child.

  We will see you situated.”

  Shinri paused. Something seemed wrong. She pulled her cloak tighter.

  “And if . . . I change my mind?” she said, glancing back at her ship.

  “Then I will be forced to insist,” Amelin said, waving for several soldiers to appear out of the mist and move toward her ship.

  Shinri backed away, growing cold. “Not you,” she whispered. “Not you

  too.”

  “I am not a monster, child,” Amelin promised. “You came here for refuge,

  and I will give it to you—and anything else you desire. But, when the time comes, I may need your . . . assistance.”

  Another prison, Shinri realized. Each one prettier than the last, but each one just as restrictive. She lowered her head as two more soldiers appeared from the mist and moved to her sides.

  Nowhere was safe, she realized. No one could be trusted. How many

  times would she need to learn this lesson?

  She raised her head, steeling herself as Jasnah had always taught. She

  had escaped from Ahven and then from Merin. She would simply have to

  do the same again.

  “My lady?” said a familiar, yet surprising voice.

  Jasnah looked up from her funeral preparations, and was stunned by

  what she saw. “Balenmar? ”

  The old man smiled, shaking his head in amazement as he walked into

  the tent. “Lady Jasnah,” he said warmly. “I never thought to see you alive again. How did you survive the attack on the palace?”

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  “I was led out by a friend,” Jasnah said, “through a passage in the cellars.

  What of you? I had given you up for dead!”

  Balenmar’s grandfatherly smile deepened. “I was visiting relatives in an

  outlying city at the time—pure chance, though I thank the Almighty for

  it. I guess these old bones have some years in them yet.”

  “But how did you come to be here?” Jasnah asked.

  “The Veden forces took me captive when they passed through my town,”

  Balenmar said. “Someone must have betrayed me. I know not why the

  Veden king didn’t execute me—he seemed to enjoy interrogating me,

  though I tried to explain that I was just an irrelevant, tired old man.”

  “Amazing,” Jasnah said, shaking her head.

  “Indeed. But you must return to your preparations,” the old man paused,

  glancing at Taln’s body. “There will be time for chatting at another time.”

  Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, stumbled, his hands and

  feet bound, as the soldiers tugged him through the city. His body was weak and battered. The Windrunner’s power had thrown him with a nonchalant

  twist of air. If Jek had doubted the Onyxseers, he could no longer delude

  himself. The old powers had indeed returned to the men of the east.

  But such things were no longer his problem. Execution undoubtedly

  awaited him—by now, the Aleth commanders would be discovering

  just who he was, and how closely he had served Ahven. When they

  discovered who had slain their Herald . . .

  Perhaps they already knew. The guards were being unreasonably rough

  with him. Yes, he could see it in their eyes. They hated him. Well, after his sins, he looked forward to a good, clean execution. He had waited a long

  time to die.

  Your master still lives. The warning of honor came from within as Jek stumbled against yet another stone, falling against the rocks. Holy, blessed stone.

  How he wished he hadn’t seen Ahven being held captive. How he

  wished he could convince himself that the Idiot King was dead.

  Your master still lives. Jek had to serve still, though he hated and loathed himself for it. He had to serve.

  The soldiers were getting impatient. One tugged on the rope again.

  Jek lay a few streets inside the city gates, near a stone house crusted with cromstone.

  “Please,” Jek said, intentionally increasing his accent. “Do not let me

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  rot in a cell. There is no Truth. Give me a knife. Let me kill myself here, honorably.”

  One of the guards snorted, but the idea seemed to appeal to the sec-

  ond man.

  “I give my oath,” Jek said, his stomach twisting. “I will use the blade

  only on myself. In Shinavar, this request would never be rejected by men of honor.”

  The uncertain guard looked to his companion. Final y, the man shrugged.

  They were in an inconspicuous location. “I suppose,” he said slowly.

  The other man pulled out his belt knife and tossed it at Jek’s feet. Jek

  picked up the weapon in bound hands, crouching pathetically before the

  two soldiers, both obviously confident that they could control one wounded, helpless man.

  “It’s all right,” the second soldier said. “In my entire life, I’ve never met a Shin who would lie.”

  Jek closed his eyes, unsheathing the blade. You just did, he thought.

  The funeral ceremony took place as evening finally fell. Thousands

  came for the event—despite the work to be done, despite wounds and

  losses, despite fatigue, they came to see. They came to witness.

  Taln lay on a pyre of wood, unarmored, but holding a sword—not his

  Blade, of course, but a fine nobleman’s weapon nonetheless. The crowd was

  oddly silent as they regarded their fallen god.

  Jasnah stepped from the tent. She was to speak first. Brother Lhan would

  come second, followed, finally, by Dalenar. The king stood to the side with a group of upper nobility. His face still showed a haunted grief—for a short time, he had thought he still had a son. It almost would have been better

  had Renarin never returned.

  Jasnah regarded the crowd, the nobility, and the dead man before her.

  She glanced to the side. Meridas stood by Dalenar. The man would retain

  his title as Parshen, as per Jasnah’s request. Dalenar needed the merchant’s connections and wealth, for a time at least, to ensure that Alethkar survived the next few years. It would be a difficult time—so many men dead, so

  many resources expended.

  Meridas. She hated him, she realized. Not just because of his slimy

  personality and situational nobility. No, she hated what he represented

  about herself—that she would choose a man like him over Taln, simply

  because she somehow rationalized the match as being
better for Alethkar.

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  She looked at Taln again. Then she raised a hand and held out a small,

  black gemstone. Obsidian. Dalenar frowned, and the crowd murmured.

  They fell silent immediately after the gemstone began to glow.

  Jasnah took a deep, fulfilling breath. The pure, clear harmony of her Soul Tone hummed in her ears, and she stroked the gemstone with its vibrations.

  The obsidian’s dark light increased, and it rose above her hand, shining and spinning in the night.

  It was brilliant, like a star floating above her palm. She could hear its

  music—the beautiful, unearthly note that she had feared for so long. It

  whispered to her, embraced her like a child who had wandered astray but

  finally returned.

  With a flick of her mind, she sent the gem spinning toward Taln’s corpse.

  The life gone from him, the Charan no longer had effect. The gemstone shattered, transferring its Tone to the flesh, and Jasnah held it steady—

  forcing the corpse’s Tone to change and match that of the gemstone.

  Taln’s body puffed instantly to smoke. Outcries began, yells of fear and

  of surprise, but Jasnah ignored them. She stared upward, toward the white

  smoke that floated away from the pyre. Away with it went her political

  career, her title and station, her place in the court. Away with it went

  everything that she had been, everything she had let define who she was.

  For those were the things that had kept her from him.

  “When Heralds die,” she whispered, though by that time no one could

  hear her over the yells of outrage, “their bodies turn to smoke.”

  It had been truth to him. She would let it be truth for her as well.

  The peasant stood at the outskirts of the crowd, a little surprised by

  Jasnah’s display, but hardly shocked. Few things shocked him any more.

  Though his features were those of the man who had gone to see Jasnah

  a short time before, begging to take the Herald’s body, his posture was

  different. His hands still shook, that was no artifice, but he stood more

  straight-backed, his mannerisms somewhat more confident.

  “That was close,” the peasant’s companion said. He was a square-faced,