The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  Except Taln. And, presumably, the other Heralds. But they had yet to arrive. Taln had not spent the last few weeks in idleness, despite his attempts to remain out of trouble. He had befriended the keepers of bars, listening to stories of travelers, searching desperately for some hint of his Brethren. Though he no longer had access to the library, he had his one book, and he had studied its every page a tenset times over.

  He had interrogated every old gaffer who would speak with him, absorb-ing as much of the recent history as he could. He had heard of the coming of Jarnah, who had nearly conquered the world before being slain by Dalenar the Tyrantbane. Taln had heard of the wars in Prallah, and had gathered everything he could on the various kings of the various nations.

  He could do no more in Alethkar. Here, he was considered a madman. He needed to move on, to use his newfound information to make a better—hopefully more sane—impression on another kingdom’s monarch. There was still hope for Roshar, even if his brethren failed to arrive.

  However, there was one thing he wanted to do first.

  Lhan approached with his customary unhurried gait. Taln wasn’t certain if the monk didn’t trust him, or if he was just concerned for Taln’s mental health, but Lhan hadn’t left him alone a single day out of the last two weeks. Despite numerous complaints about how much he loathed cromcleaning, the monk had gotten down and scrubbed walls like a man who’d been doing the work all his life.

  Taln rose, dusting off his gloves as the monk approached. “You requested that we be allowed to leave early?”

  “You could say that,” Lhan replied.

  “Good,” Taln said with a nod, setting aside his tool and gloves. It was growing late in the day, and the sun was just a few hours away from setting behind the monstrous peak of the Mount of Ancestors.

  “We need to get cleaned up,” Taln said. “The duels will begin soon.”

  “Lead on then, Herald of the Almighty,” Lhan said, waving toward the monastery. “Though, why you want to go watch is beyond me. I know a couple good games of chips we could get in on . . .”

  Taln smiled. Every day, the monk—like everyone else—got wages from the cromcleaning. Lhan probably should have turned his earnings in to his superiors, since monks couldn’t own wealth. Lhan, however, promptly took the gems and lost them in nightly gambling games with the other cromcleaners. He’d once told Taln that he figured the money would get to the poor of the city one way or another, and he might as well have fun giving it to them. He never seemed to wonder what would happen if he won—fortunately, Lhan was absolutely terrible at chips.

  “No chips tonight, Lhan,” Taln replied. “You have a promise to keep.

  Lhan rolled his eyes. “I can tell you what’s going to happen,” the monk informed. “Some men are going to pretend to try and hurt each other with swords. They’ll hop around a bit, and one of them will strike a lucky blow. They’ll stop, congratulate each other for being so magnificent, then they’ll go get drunk. There will be a lot of lords there, and they’ll all do their best to make the rest of us feel like we don’t belong. It will be crowded, smelly, and melodramatic. A good game of chips, however . . .”

  Taln shook his head. “You said if I worked on the streets, you would get me into the duels.”

  Lhan sighed. “All right. Since we’re citizens, we’ll only be able to watch the lesser duels, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Lhan paused. “After the duels, we need to have a talk about . . . issues of employment.”

  “If you wish,” Taln said.

  Sapphire Jan had been a good foreman, and Lhan had worked hard to provide Taln with a stable life. Taln was grateful to both of them. However, neither of them knew that Taln had no intention whatsoever of cleaning walls the next day—even if he did survive the night’s festivities.

  chapter 25

  Jasnah 6

  The feast hall fell silent as Jasnah entered. The quiet was eerie. The competition should have been a time of mirth and celebration, not one of solemnity. Titles would be presented, honor and prestige would be earned, old acquaintances could be rekindled and old rivalries enflamed. Yet, at Jasnah’s entrance, the women suddenly fell silent. The men, sensing the mood, trailed off as well.

  Jasnah tried to ignore the onlookers as she walked forward with a smooth gait. The variety in kingdoms represented at the feast was surprising. Thalen and Veden visitors were to be expected—both kingdoms were powerful in their own right, and were allies of Alethkar. However, there were also would-be noblemen from the struggling kingdoms of Distant Prall, conquered aristocrats from the occupied kingdom of Lakhenran, and even a few Shin clansmen.

  For the festivities, Elhokar had chosen the Jez hall—the Eleventh Hall, as it was called, built not for a single kingdom but to accommodate a larger mixed group. It was wide and open, its support columns relegated to the outer rim with four massive pillars running down the center of the chamber. A dueling ring had been drawn between each set of pillars, with tables forming layered circles around them. There would be other dueling rings, of course, in lesser feast halls—attended by citizens and less-important nobility. The preliminary duels had already been performed. Only the very best of contestants would perform before the king.

  Jasnah walked through the room, maintaining an elegant stride, talla blue, hair up, looking as regal as she ever had. While Elhokar had thought to keep the betrothal announcement a relative secret, Nanavah had seen to it that every woman in the court knew exactly what was going to happen. And, what a man’s wife knew, he knew.

  The men watched respectfully as Jasnah passed, pleasantly oblivious to the truth. To them, the betrothal announcement marked the joyous—and long overdue—marriage of the king’s aging sister. Their wives, however, knew better. The women of the court smiled with false eyes. Those with enough sense to pay attention realized that no wedding would be announced this day, but a funeral—the death of Jasnah’s political career. Jasnah’s struggle with the queen had been unseen, even unmentioned, but it had been as fervent as any battlefield war.

  Nanavah sat at the queen’s table, almost demure in her red talla, resplendent with sapphires. She had won. As Jasnah’s closest married female kin and surrogate mother, Nanavah had the right to choose Jasnah’s husband. She could choose practically anyone—provided the match wasn’t too unequal. However, there were plenty of lords of modest rank who lived far, far from Oathgates or courts. It would not be difficult to find Jasnah a man with little interest in politics, one who lived in a city so secluded from important events that Jasnah would have difficulty discovering what was happening in Ral Eram, let alone influence court politics. Jasnah was not completely defeated, but it would take her years to recover.

  Dalenar sat at the king’s table, his hostility toward Elhokar far less evident than it had been a few weeks before. Once again, Meridas sat in the place normally reserved for the king’s second Parshen. Jasnah frowned slightly as she saw the smooth-mannered nobleman. He was far too conniving for a male, and far too successful in his politics for one from such a relatively unknown house.

  Elhokar stood, waving for Jasnah to approach his table. She moved forward, bowing before him.

  “I wish you would consent to wearing jewelry, sister,” he said quietly. “It is unseemly of the king’s sister to appear so plain, especially on her betrothal day.”

  Jasnah gave no response. Traditional or not, this was one matter on which she would offer no concession.

  Elhokar sighed, turning to the crowd. “I have some business that needs to be attended to before his competition begins,” he said unnecessarily to the quiet room. His next words were a surprise, however. “You,” he said, pointing at a young nobleman in a green seasilk shirt and loose brown trousers. “Stand before your king.”

  The young man flushed slightly, embarrassed. Jasnah turned, resting her uncuffed hand lightly on the king’s table. She didn’t recognize the man, but his cloak bore Jezenrosh’s glyph. The young nobleman rose,
then walked forward and fell to one knee before the king’s table.

  “Introduce yourself to the court,” Elhokar ordered, leaning forward, hands on the table as he looked down at the younger man.

  “I am Fifth Lord Islin Naninarin of Crossguard, your majesty.”

  Fifth Lord of Crossguard. A Shardbearer. Indeed, his yet-unbonded blade could be seen leaning against his table. Jasnah recognized his family name, but only vaguely.

  “When were you given your Blade?” Elhokar demanded.

  “Several months ago, your majesty,” the young man said. “From Lord Jezenrosh. It belonged to one of his men who had died in the war.”

  “And where is your Lord Jezenrosh now?” Elhokar asked.

  “In Crossguard, your majesty,” the man said, eyes still lowered. “He regrets his inability to attend, but his illness forbids it.”

  Elhokar stood upright, waving the young Shardbearer away. Jasnah felt a chill. She recognized the dangerous anger in her brother’s eyes.

  “Hear that, court of Alethkar!” the king announced. “I ordered every Shardbearer in my realm to attend this feast, yet my cousin sees fit to ignore his king. In his place, he sends two unknown Shardbearers—men granted Blades less than a hundred days ago; men none of us have even met.”

  Don’t do this, Elhokar . . . Jasnah thought, taking a step toward him. He stopped her with a glare.

  “Perhaps Lord Jezenrosh truly is ill,” Elhokar said. “Perhaps, for some reason, he needs to keep his other Shardbearers at his side, sending only these pups to answer his king’s command. Either way, he is no longer able to fulfill his duties as Parshen. Therefore, I relieve him of the title, lest it burden him further.”

  Jasnah sighed. The title of Parshen, once given, was normally only withdrawn in response to treason. Jezenrosh had many relatives, allies, and friends. Taking his title was a slap that would be felt across many faces.

  The crowd seemed less surprised than it should have been. Of course they knew, Jasnah thought. This is too conniving a move for Elhokar to have managed on his own. It has been planned ever since the king announced the dueling competition. Jasnah eyed Nanavah, who was smiling contentedly at her table, Ladies Desolh and Senis at her side, the wives of the two most powerful Third Lords in Alethkar. She was behind Elhokar’s order that all Shardbearers attend the competition. But . . . what reason could she possibly have to oust Jezenrosh?

  “Lord Meridas Isvenda,” Elhokar said, turning.

  The tall merchant fell to one knee.

  “For service to your king and country, I grant you Lordship of the city of Orinjah, formerly of Pralir. Orinjah shall bear the rank of Fourth City until the time of the next census. I also name you Parshen to the king, warden of Prallah. Select for yourself a Shardblade from those to be awarded this evening.”

  Jasnah’s displeasure seethed. Following Jezenrosh’s release, Meridas’s appointment was hardly surprising. The merchant finally had the power he had sought so hard to obtain. Now, he would be an even more potent force in Aleth politics—with its Oathgate, Orinjah would quickly become one of the most powerful cities in the kingdom. Jasnah was so displeased that she almost missed Elhokar’s nod for his wife to stand.

  It was time.

  “My lord,” the queen said loudly, “I have decided to exercise my Right of Decision. Lady Jasnah Kholin has served her house well, but it is time that she be wedded.”

  Nanavah paused, then smiled slightly. “Oddly, I see another problem in the court that needs to be rectified. Lord Meridas has a new duty and a new Blade, but he too is unwedded—an unfitting state for a king’s Parshen. Therefore, I give Lady Jasnah to him, assuming his mother approves. Let Lady Jasnah Kholin be married to Lord Meridas Isvenda.”

  Jasnah stood dumbly. She turned from Nanavah, to the king, and finally to the smiling Meridas. What?

  Meridas stood. “I am very pleased by this opportunity to become brothers with the king I love so much,” he announced. “And even more pleased to receive a woman as beautiful and capable as Lady Jasnah. I shall send word to my mother immediately—the wedding can occur as soon as she blesses the union, my lady queen.”

  Elhokar smiled broadly. “Then the betrothal is official. Let the duels begin!”

  chapter 26

  Jek 5

  Jeksonsonvallano, Truthless of Shinavar, moved quickly in the night. Around him, tents glowed from within like massive, luminescent fungi. Where there was light, there were shadows—and where there were shadows, he was unseen.

  He paused, crouching in the darkness, peering through the Davar camp. He couldn’t believe that they had returned so quickly—and with such force. Even in the darkness, he could see the banners waving with the symbol of House Reinar. The southern nobles, seeing the movements of the wind, had proposed allegiance with Talshekh. There was no longer any pretense—no reason for Davar to accept the rule of an Idiot King. Talshekh had arrived back at Veden City earlier in the day.

  Ahven wouldn’t survive the night.

  Jek scuttled away, slipping over smoothed rock, moving silently through the camp. He had finally finished with Ahven’s list—the last few names had, surprisingly, been men in Talshekh Davar’s army. Their deaths would soon be discovered. Yet, strangely, Talshekh’s own name had not been on the list.

  Why not have him assassinate Lord Talshekh? In Shinavar, killing the leader of an army would be immaterial—clan leadership was soundly structured, and no army would falter from the loss of one man, no matter how important. In the east, however, things were different. Leaders often provided sole inspiration for their men.

  Perhaps Ahven realized that this situation was different. Jah Keved had been shattered and unified simultaneously—the Houses had risen against one another, then had solidified behind a single leader. Even if that man died, an army would still sit outside of Veden City. Yes, killing Talshekh would end one threat, but even if another civil war ensued, one thing would be universally understood. Ahven could not remain on the throne.

  Jek could see it now—Talshekh’s pavilion. Getting in would be difficult. Here, the walls were cloth, and not stone. Sounds traveled easily, and signs of struggle could be seen by flickering light. Killing Talshekh would not solve Ahven’s basic problem, but it probably wouldn’t hurt. The more squabbling, the more confusion, the longer the Idiot King would have to plan.

  Jek leaned down, staying close to the ground, his cheek almost touching the stone beneath. He felt the rock with his fingertips, whispering an apology for the blood he must spill upon it. Ahven had given no order to attack Talshekh, but Jek’s Bond was more than simple slavery of body—it required more. It required honor and duty, without the rewards of either. If killing Talshekh helped his master, then Truth demanded he act.

  And then he saw them. Four men, bearing staves of wood, slowly patrol-ling the perimeter of Talshekh’s tent. Men with light skin and familiar clothing. Shin warriors.

  Jek shrank back into the darkness, surprised. Where had Talshekh found Shin willing to serve him? Were they Truthless? No, that couldn’t be possible—it would be too much of a coincidence. The men held identical staves and walked with familiarity. They were of the same clan. Falnakandan? Trudunashas? Both were Clans of the Staff. But, why would they . . . ?

  Jek felt his palms grow slick against the stone. It had been long since he had faced a true warrior, too long. There could be only one reason they would consent to guarding Talshekh—he must have convinced them that he was in danger from a Shin assassin. They would be watching for one such as Jek. How many more were there? Four alert Shin warriors were enough of a risk on their own, but if there were others . . .

  Jek slipped back into the darkness. He would serve his Bond foolishly if he got himself killed without orders. He would let Ahven decide.

  Jek frowned as he searched the city. It was busy despite the late hour. The people knew that Talshekh’s army had returned, and many probably understood what that meant. Already, merchants had rushed from the ci
ty, offering goods and comforts to the wearied troops. The gates were wide open, a sign from the nobility of Vedenar—they would give up their fool of a king willingly, if it would bring their own safety.

  Except that king was not to be found. The nobility was visibly disturbed. Their messengers and servants scuttled through the city as bobs of lanternlight, searching frantically for their sacrificial monarch. Without proof of his blood, they would not be able to ensure the invader’s good will.

  Jek crouched on a rooftop, watching a particular lantern-lit figure on the streets below. He recognized the man despite his lack of uniform—he was one of Ahven’s guards, one of those who had appeared to know his king’s secret. He had been waiting in the shadows outside Ahven’s palace, hiding as best an easterner could manage, when the assembled troops of the Veden nobility had come for the king.

  The soldier was probably loyal, but he was terrible at sneaking. He constantly looked over his shoulder, and he crept when he should have strolled. Even the other easterners should have noticed something suspicious about his movements—Jek was surprised that none of the many street-goers gave the soldier a second look. They were too busy with their problems to realize that the answer they sought was lurking his way past them on the street.

  The low stone buildings of Veden City were perfect for roof-top following, and Jek had no trouble tailing his prey. The man’s destination, however, gave him pause. Jek settled down against the firm stone of a roof, crouching and studying the building the soldier entered.

  The structure was taller than most, though still only one story. Its sloping rock walls glistened with flakes of quartz, and even in the darkness Jek could make out the lavish metal ornamentations on the pillars and doors. In front, a tall bronze statue stood with an outstretched hand, pointing toward the city. In his other hand, the statue held a triangular shield—the Kanaran symbol of justice.