The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  The lhel of the table pushed against her; she pushed back, forcing its Tone to change and match that of the ruby.

  The wood became fire. It didn’t burn, like a blaze started from logs, but was immediately Remade into flame. The table exploded with a large roaring sound, a blossom of fire illuminating the room, throwing heat against Jasnah’s face, scarring the stone walls with black soot.

  Then the flame was gone. She could hear Nelshenden whispering a prayer to the Almighty. The prisoner was crying. Jasnah’s soul chord vibrated erratically, sending a shiver of pain through her body. The force with which she had pushed against the table returned upon her, and for a brief moment, her own Tone threatened to change and become like that of the ruby. Jasnah had to seize her Tone quickly, holding it stable, forcing it back toward regularity.

  She took a few deep breaths. “Nelshenden,” she finally said. “Another gemstone. A ruby, if you have one.”

  Nelshenden was lethargic, but he eventually complied, pulling out another fifty-Ishmark gem. Jasnah gritted her teeth, still fighting to keep her Tone stable.

  I’d forgotten how hard this was, Jasnah thought. Her very bones seemed to vibrate, sending pain through her body. If she released control, her lhel would adopt the note she had just Awakened—and she herself would disappear in a burst of flame.

  “I undertook the Charan,” the prisoner sobbed. “You can’t affect me with Awakening.”

  “That’s what we tell you,” Jasnah said, holding forth the ruby again.

  “I’m just a scratch,” the man said. “They didn’t even tell me who the hit was until this afternoon! They left an hour ago, told me to watch the building and report if anyone came looking for them. Honestly, I don’t know anything.”

  Clenching her jaw against the pain and the danger, Jasnah stroked the second ruby. It began to glow.

  “That’s all I know!” the man promised. “They hired me about a month ago. All they did was look around the city, get to know the layout of the castle. The first time we did anything was last night.”

  “What did you do?” Jasnah demanded.

  “We hit a group of men traveling to the city,” the man said. “I just stood watch—they did the killing. I didn’t know they were Shardbearers! Honestly!”

  “Shardbearers?” Jasnah asked, surprised, lowering the gemstone. It popped ineffectually, spraying her hand with red dust.

  The man nodded in his bonds, eyes closed, shivering slightly as he wept. “Took them in their sleep. Two of them, with their guards. We buried the guards, but they took the bodies of the noblemen. I don’t know what they wanted with them.”

  Two Shardbearers. “Where was the group you attacked traveling from?”

  “Crossguard,” the man whispered.

  “By the winds . . .” Jasnah said, spinning toward her two stunned guard captains. “You two, wake up! Worry about my Awakening later.”

  Nelshenden shook his head, coming out of his stupor, regarding her with eyes that were alarmingly distrustful.

  “Two Shardbearers, Nelshenden!” Jasnah said. “From Crossguard. The assassins killed Jezenrosh’s delegation and took its place! They replaced his Shardbearers with two young men who could claim to have been elevated so recently that no one in court would recognize them.”

  “By the Almighty!” Kemnar exclaimed.

  “That’s where the rumors of Jezenrosh’s plotting came from!” Jasnah said. “Nanavah doesn’t just want to kill my brother, she wants to blame it on Jezenrosh.”

  “And the assassins have rooms in the Aleth section of the palace,” Nelshenden whispered, “a few doors down from those of the king himself.”

  chapter 31

  Merin 7

  Merin relaxed in one of the sitting rooms across the hallway from the feast hall. The room was warm and pleasant, lightly decorated in dark woods with a thick rug on the floor. He held a cup of rainwater sweetened with roshtree juice, his Dalenar-proscribed allotment of wine long since imbibed.

  Renarin sat next to him. The young man had been acting strange, even for Renarin, ever since Aredor’s fight with Meridas. Renarin still held his first cup of wine—but, instead of drinking it, he sat staring into the flagon’s depths.

  Aredor seemed far less disturbed by the confrontation. He stood by the room’s hearth, speaking quietly with several men from Teth Kanar, a Third City set at the Point of the Sea of Chomar. Winning the Shardbearer’s competition had lightened Aredor’s mood, not to mention redeemed him in the eyes of the other court members.

  Merin sighed, enjoying the peace. Merin had watched some thirty Shardbearer duels, and the quick motions, the cheering onlookers, and the clang of metal against metal had brought on a slight headache. Fortunately, as the evening had progressed, the court’s men had lost much of their rowdiness. Those who wanted to get drunk did so, and the rest of them had trickled off to one of the sitting rooms.

  The competition’s eventual winner was a young man who stood speaking with King Elhokar on the far side of the room. Merin thought he recognized the man from the Pralir battlefield, but had never spoken with him. Aredor had identified him as the fourth son of an Eighth Lord, which made his victory all the more triumphant—it was unlikely he would have ever managed to get a Blade elsewhere. The young man stood with a look of disbelief on his face, one that Merin could heartily understand.

  Eventually, Elhokar disengaged himself from the lucky Shardbearer. He strode from the room, bidding goodnight to several lords as he passed. The king probably had the right idea—Merin had no idea what hour of night it was, but it was probably well time they returned to Kholinar. Unfortunately, his chair was far too comfortable to abandon at the moment. He leaned back, closing his eyes and sighing in contentment.

  Merin felt it, even with his eyes closed. He couldn’t see the air change when the pendant somehow touched his skin, getting past his undershirt, but he could still feel it. He could sense the wind outside the building, the winds far away, calling to him. He felt . . . a burst of strength, a sudden awakening of soul and being. Nothing was ever dull within the embrace of the glyphward. Nothing was ever lethargic, depressed, or listless when he could feel the wind.

  And yet, he forced himself to reach up and pull the pendant away from his neck, tucking it back into position between shirt and underclothing. He hadn’t been able to make himself take it off, not with the power and vivaciousness it seemed to lend. However, he still didn’t trust it. His mother told stories of the whispering highstorms, and of the curses they could bring. Someday, he would get rid of the pendant. Just not today.

  Merin settled back into his chair, but the relaxation was tainted now that he had been reminded of the greater strength he was missing.

  “I don’t like this,” Renarin mumbled from beside him.

  Merin raised an eyebrow. “What is wrong with you tonight, anyway?”

  Renarin looked up from his wine. “What do you mean?”

  “Meridas tricked your brother and made a fool of him,” Merin said. “That’s not going to change, but Aredor did redeem himself. You don’t have to focus on it so much.”

  “I haven’t been thinking about Meridas,” Renarin said, looking back down at his wine. “I’m worried about Aredor.”

  “He seems to be fine,” Merin said. From the pieces of conversation Merin had heard, Aredor was deeply engaged in an attempt to get a particular seasilk caravan to pass through Kholinar. Lord Dalenar and Lady Kinae had retired back through the Oathgates a few hours before, leaving Aredor to handle the evening’s financial discussions.

  “He’s been shooting glances toward those two men all night,” Renarin said.

  Merin frowned. “Which two men?”

  Renarin nodded at two noblemen who stood by the far wall, drinks held in their hands but not touching their lips. Merin recognized them—they were the two Shardbearers from Crossguard, the men Jezenrosh had sent. The younger one wore a dark expression—he was the one who had been embarrassed so soundly earlier in
the evening, when Elhokar had demanded to know why Jezenrosh had not come to the dueling competition.

  “Why would Aredor care about those two?” Merin asked.

  “I don’t know,” Renarin replied. “But he does. I can see it. Aredor followed them here, to this room. He keeps standing alone, as if waiting for someone to approach him—however, it’s never those two. Not yet.”

  Merin shook his head, leaning back and closing his eyes. “The palace guards are right, Renarin. You’re a strange, strange man.”

  “Am I?” Renarin asked. “Look.”

  Merin forced his eyes open. Aredor stood distracted from his conversation, obviously paying little attention to his two companions, who were now speaking to one another. His eyes watched Jezenrosh’s two Shardbearers—who were leaving the room with a quick gait.

  Merin raised an eyebrow as Aredor bid farewell to the men from Teth Kanar, then strolled nonchalantly over toward Merin and Renarin. “I’m going to go stretch my legs for a moment,” he said. “Wait for me here—I’ll be back shortly.” He didn’t even wait for a reply before following the two Shardbearers from the room.

  Merin glanced toward Renarin.

  “Follow him?” Renarin asked.

  “Definitely,” Merin replied, picking up his Shardblade and jumping from the chair.

  The two of them ducked out into the hallway. A doorway just opposite them led to the feast hall, with its food-littered tables and occasional drunken slumberer. The hallway lamps were lit, and it was easy to see Aredor to the right, moving quickly down the passageway as he caught up to the two Shardbearers and walked in step beside them.

  “What are those three planning?” Merin asked with a frown, sneaking out behind them.

  Aredor’s trio stopped, and Merin pulled Renarin aside into a pillar alcove. He peeked around the corner to see Aredor speaking quietly with the two others, his face frustrated. A few moments later, the two Shardbearers stalked away, leaving Aredor alone in the corridor.

  “Come on,” Renarin said, slipping out of Merin’s grasp and scurrying toward his brother.

  Merin flushed as Aredor turned and saw them, then waved for them to stay where they were. He approached, a deep frown on his face, his eyes still turned toward the men disappearing in the distance.

  “Aredor, what’s going on?” Merin asked.

  “Those men were supposed to bring me a message from Jezenrosh,” Aredor said.

  “About what?” Merin asked.

  “It’s not important,” Aredor said with a distracted wave of his hand. “They said they didn’t know what I was talking about, even though Jezenrosh promised to give me a reply. I find it hard to believe that he would forget . . .”

  “Aredor,” Renarin said urgently. “The king left the room right before those men.”

  “You think he might be meeting with them?” Aredor asked.

  “No,” Renarin said. “Those two didn’t drink all night, and they didn’t mingle. They took part in the Shardbearers’ competition, but they were both eliminated early. They fought very carefully in the first few rounds, and appeared very skilled, but then were defeated through simple mistakes—as if they wanted to progress far enough not to stand out, but also didn’t want to draw attention by doing too well.”

  Aredor mulled over his brother’s words. “Come on,” he finally said.

  Aredor led them forward, through the maze of interconnecting hallways that crossed the ten wings of the First Palace. Aredor took a different route than the Shardbearers had, but he moved quickly, leading Merin and Renarin in a quick half-jog that looped them back toward the royal quarters.

  The hallways here were dark. Lanterns burned on their wall brackets, but there were no chandeliers, and only every other lantern was lit to save oil. Merin stopped beside Aredor, puffing slightly from their dash and the excitement of the moment. The hallway was silent. Aredor paused for a moment, then moved as if to start again.

  Renarin, however, held up a hand, head cocked to the side. A few moments later, Merin heard it too. Footsteps—loud, clinking footsteps, as if . . .

  The two Shardbearers rounded an intersection just ahead, now clad in Shardplate. They had been joined by about ten men in simple, dark clothing, all of whom were armed with maces or clubs. The two Shardbearers stopped with a clink when they saw Aredor. One of them wore dark grey and gold; the second was the green warrior with the thin blade Merin had watched duel.

  “Did Jezenrosh put you up to this?” Aredor asked, his voice ringing in the empty stone hallway. “Or did you decide to do it on your own?”

  The Shardbearers did not respond. Their group of common warriors stood hesitantly behind them.

  “Killing the king will do you no good,” Aredor said. “My father will never stand for it. I warned Jezenrosh not to be absent from the night’s festivities—I warned him that he might lose his title. Elhokar might be a fool, but greater is the fool who heedlessly provokes him.”

  The older of the two Shardbearers motioned to his solders with a quick gesture, and they split, each group heading down a different hallway behind him. They could easily reach the king’s quarters by a more roundabout method. The Shardbearers said not a word, stepping forward, long lines of smoke forming from their hands.

  “Merin, Renarin, go and warn the king’s guard,” Aredor said, eyes fixed on the two Shardbearers as he summoned his own Blade.

  Merin paused. Jezenrosh’s Shardbearers walked forward with foreboding steps. These men would not follow Protocol—not when assassinating the king was their night’s task. Merin felt an itch of fear regarding their gleaming Shardplate, remembering how much of a difference it had made in the night’s duels.

  With scrambling fingers, Merin pulled out his belt knife and cut the strings holding the metal sheath over his blade. The sheath clanged to the stone floor, releasing the Blade from its grip. Suddenly, the weapon felt balanced, even alive, in Merin’s hands. Its hilt wasn’t completely straight, but formed so that his grip locked perfectly into place, as if it were another set of hands clasping with his own.

  Merin stepped forward, standing in a dueling stance beside his friend. Aredor smiled, though his eyes were reserved.

  “Renarin, go,” Aredor said. “To the king’s chambers first, then to the royal guard houses if you have time.”

  “But—” Renarin said, voice worried.

  “Go!” Aredor snapped.

  Ten heartbeats passed, three Shardblades formed. Renarin paused only a moment longer, then took off at a dash.

  “I saw their duels,” Aredor said in a low voice, releasing the clasp on his cloak and nodding for Merin to do likewise. “The older one is the better of the two. I’ll take him, you take the younger one. Fight defensively—if we can hold them long enough, others will come.”

  Merin nodded, sweat tickling the side of his face, hands clammy as they gripped his Blade.

  The two Shardbearers attacked in tandem. Breaking Protocol instantly, they both pressed toward Merin, obviously trying to defeat the weaker of their two opponents first. Aredor wouldn’t let them. He charged the older man—the one in green—swinging his Blade and forcing the man to engage him.

  The second assassin swung at Merin. The man’s Blade was long and straight, its length bearing designs that made it appear to be a series of stacked triangles. Merin ducked with a quick motion, Vasher’s training prompting him to action without thought. His opponent’s weapon sheared through the corridor wall behind him, leaving a long scar in the stone.

  Merin came out of his duck and fell immediately into Vasher’s stance. He struck while his opponent was still off-balance, but the man deflected the strike with the base of his sword, pushing Merin backward with a heave of Plate-enhanced muscles.

  Merin stumbled with a grunt, barely staying upright. The Shardbearer struck with three sweeping blows, stepping forward with each one, forcing Merin to hop repeatedly backward. The final maladroit jump was too much, and Merin lost his footing, tripping and tumbling
to the ground.

  The Shardbearer dove for the kill, but a sudden blow from behind struck the man’s back, drawing his attention. Merin’s opponent turned in surprise as Aredor skidded past, then stopped in front of Merin.

  Both opponents pressed their advantage, but Aredor faced them both, deflecting blow after blow. Merin shook his head, dispelling his dizziness as Aredor fought and somehow stood against two Shardbearers at the same time. Merin could see Aredor sweating from the exertion, however, and could see the man’s arms quiver after parrying each of the Plate-enhanced strikes. He was barely staying ahead of their attacks, deflecting Blades at the last moment, teetering on the edge of being overwhelmed.

  Merin jumped to his feet, throwing himself back into the contest. Aredor stepped to the side, allowing Merin to face the younger Shardbearer again, and the two duels separated—this time, Merin’s opponent was careful to place his back to the open hallway. As he turned, Merin could see a long scar in the man’s Shardplate where Aredor had struck him.

  Merin tried to remain calm, focused on his stance, letting training dictate his swings. Yet, it was impossible not to notice his own deficiency. Vasher had been right—he wasn’t ready for dueling. He fought as best he could, but his opponent seemed to anticipate his moves. Merin knew only a couple of basic strikes, and the lack of variety made him predictable. He could not win this fight.

  Not fairly, at least. Use every advantage you have, Vasher had said.

  Merin clenched his jaw as his opponent swung again, using the same sweeping three-strike attack he had used before. This time, Merin jumped backward, not trying to parry, only trying to give himself a second of free time. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out the glyphward and dropping it around his skin.

  The air’s movements manifest to him, and the wind’s voice whispered to his mind. Unfortunately, he wasn’t certain what good that would do. He had used the glyphward in combat several times, but it had never been as effective as it had been that first day. He could see the air, and could see men breathe, but that gave him little aid other than hinting at when an attack would come.