The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  Of the war at Crossguard, the men knew little of substance. Apparently, this section of the kingdom was loyal to the king, and they spoke of Jezenrosh with spiteful voices. Their own city lord rode with the king, as did his sons, and the townsmen spoke of this fact with pride—though Taln doubted Elhokar had any care for a tributing sixth lord or his offspring. Several men claimed to have heard that the siege had begun, a few guessed it already over, but the majority professed ignorance. Elhokar was moving quickly, and they had heard little from their sons or friends in the army. They all expected it would be a quick, easy battle. After all, the king had taken his wrath to Prallah, running down the Traitor who had killed his father. After that, dealing with a pest such as Jezenrosh would be simple.

  Kemnar was winding down the evening’s discussions by asking after any horses that might be for sale when the atmosphere changed.

  Taln perked up, though no one else in the tavern seemed to notice it. Something had happened. Something subtle, something even he couldn’t pick out. His senses were such that his unconscious mind often discerned trouble long before it actually arrived. He sat tensely, hand resting on Kemnar’s pack, fingers inching toward the Shardblade hilt within, as a newcomer entered the bar.

  Taln tracked the young man, noting his excitement, his slightly drunken posture, and his quick, searching eyes. This was a man with news. Taln elbowed Kemnar, nodding toward the newcomer.

  He needn’t have bothered. When the young man spoke, his voice was loud enough for the entire bar to hear. “A nobleman in the city!” he exclaimed to his friends at the other end of the bar. “High of rank, with a Shardblade. They say he’s come with the king’s sister herself!”

  Kemnar and Taln exchanged a glance, and were out the door a heartbeat later.

  A crowd had gathered near an inn on the main thoroughfare. This building was one of the few in the city kept clean of cromstone, and it stood more like a structure from Ral Eram or Kholinar, with strong stone sides and pillars at the front. A surprising number of townspeople had gathered, many of them looking as if they had been roused from sleep, and they stood whispering to themselves, trying to press up against the inn’s door or windows for a look. Taln and Kemnar paused at the outer rim, ineffectually trying to push their way through the mass of bodies.

  With a sigh, Taln nodded to Kemnar, and they removed their Shardblades from the pack. Taln handed Kemnar’s weapon to him, then hefted his own weapon, exposing the distinctive silvery metal and pommel, which still bore the dark black opal of its previous owner. It only took the townspeople a few moments to notice them, and suddenly the crowd’s focus changed directions. The people parted with alarm, people bowing with shocked or excited expressions.

  Taln pushed through the front door and saw precisely what he had expected and dreaded. This inn was lavish compared to the tavern they had left, with rugs on the floor, ornamented pillars, and even some marble coatings on a few surfaces. Most of the furniture in the common room had been cleared, making room at the center for two wooden tables—one for the men, one for the women. A haughty-faced Meridas sat at the head of the men’s table, a lavish meal being laid out before him. Jasnah sat at the other table with her ladies-in-waiting. She seemed less pleased than Meridas, though her face was always difficult to read.

  “So much for stealth,” Taln muttered. As he stepped inside, he noted that the rest of the refugees were eating a short distance away, in a separate, larger dining hall.

  Kemnar snorted in agreement, but said nothing.

  Meridas smiled as soon as he saw Taln. “Ah, madman,” he said. “And the good Lord Kemnar. I had hoped you would wait until dinner was finished to return, as to not spoil the taste, but I suppose we can find a place for you somewhere.”

  Taln ignored him, stalking through the room to Jasnah’s table. He stood beside her, folding his arms expectantly.

  “You should have come to report as soon as you saw the city, Taln,” she said, stabbing a piece of glazed meat with a small, spear-like fork. “We wondered what happened to you, and sent other scouts.”

  Taln raised an eyebrow. Her words were scolding, but they lacked her usual sting. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize you would be foolish enough to reveal yourself by coming inside to look for us.”

  Jasnah shot him a veiled glare at that one. “We had to come in sometime,” she said. “We need supplies.”

  “Kemnar and I could have gathered them without exposing ourselves to our pursuers.”

  “And what of those?” Jasnah said, waving toward the refugees in the other room. “You knew we needed to drop them off. How did you expect to do that without ‘exposing ourselves to our pursuers?’ Or did you somehow expect us to travel quickly to Kholinar while carrying with us the wounded and the weak?”

  Taln gritted his teeth in frustration. “Do not reveal our destination!” he hissed, glancing back at the peasants watching outside. “Do you want the invaders to know all of our plans?”

  Jasnah paused, flushing slightly.

  Beside them, however, Meridas laughed openly. “You are a fool, madman. Though I suppose it is too much to ask anything else of you. There is no proof of these ‘pursuers’ you mention other than your own word—which we already know to be often delusional. Did you really think we would simply pass this town by, quiet as Stormshades? As Lady Jasnah noted, we have to rid ourselves of excess weight. Besides, we must send messengers to his majesty and Lord Dalenar. You expected us to do such things without inspiring gossip from messengers’ family and friends? Better we come in openly so that we might prevent rumors. Information is our ally, not that of our enemy.”

  Taln ground his teeth. Unfortunately, the foppish man spoke some measure of truth. It was highly unlikely that they could have passed Marcabe without revealing themselves. Later villages they could avoid with stealth, but not this first one. They would simply have to hope that their pursuers were slow to find their trail.

  “It really is for the best, Taln,” Jasnah informed. “Meridas was right, this time. We needed to come in. Besides, without the authority of the crown, we wouldn’t have the necessary funds to do as we need.”

  Taln glanced down, realizing for the first time that their group hardly had the money to pay for such extravagant meals, let alone horses, which were apparently still extremely rare in Kanaran Roshar.

  “They will loan us gems against the king’s name?” Taln asked.

  Jasnah nodded. “Marcabe is loyal to my brother, and Meridas is known here. He was a merchant until just recently, and this was one of his main trade stops. We can borrow from the lord’s own stewards. Probably not much, mind you, but enough to get us by.”

  Taln sighed, seating himself at an open stool beside Jasnah—the move causing snickers from Meridas’s table. Taln ignored them, frowning at his own foolishness. He should have returned rather than visiting the city—he had left Jasnah open to Meridas’s manipulation. Perhaps revealing themselves was necessary, but certainly this level of pomp was excessive.

  “Pout if you must, madman,” Meridas noted, as if he had known what Taln was thinking. “But I, for one, never planned to give up this last opportunity for comfort. Lady Jasnah has spent the last two weeks traipsing through tunnels and across stormlands. You don’t think she deserved a warm meal and a night of rest after such?”

  Taln groaned inwardly, wondering how much Meridas was going to reveal of their secret flight. Probably everything. By the morning, the entire story of their escape would be known to the town.

  Well, perhaps that is a good thing, Taln told himself. He eyed Meridas. The man was such a pompous fool, yet there was a hidden cleverness to him. Meridas’s comment about information had been lucid—secrecy was the agent of the invaders. If even rumors reached King Elhokar, it would serve as something of a warning. And the surest way to spread rumors was through drama. A midnight entry, followed by an expensive and highly visible meal and accompanied by a daring tale of escape . . . It was just the sort of
news that would move quickly and eagerly, especially once men left the village following the Bellow. If Jasnah’s group had to expose themselves to the city, perhaps it was better that they did so with flare, using the situation to their advantage.

  Meridas did not reveal whether he was making such a calculated and daring move, or if he simply wanted a warm meal. He caught Taln’s studying eye, and smiled. One thing was certain—here, in the city, Meridas was once again in his element. Taln would not get the better of him while within its borders.

  Taln sighed, giving into Kemnar’s prompting and joining the men’s table, where he allowed himself to be fed before the gawking townspeople. Reasons aside, it had happened—they were in the city, exposed. The best thing to do was to make use of the conveniences, then get out as quickly as possible.

  chapter 48

  Merin 11

  A column of smoke twisted toward the Dwelling—a black streak that faded to translucence, barely visible in the starlight. Merin stood, stepping away from their meager fire—a fire whose smoke had masked the wind’s ominous scent. A scent familiar, but unwelcome.

  Burning flesh.

  “I can smell the burning stations,” Merin said, scanning the darkness for other columns of smoke. “The battlefield is close.”

  Renarin didn’t respond. Merin turned back, glancing through the embers of smoldering rockbud shells. Renarin crouched in the ruddy light, one hand clutching his onyx sphere, the other pinching a worn bit of charcoal between two talon-like fingers as he scribbled on the stone beside their campfire. The light barely illuminated his figure, leaving his face dark, faintly outlined in red.

  “Renarin?” Merin prodded.

  There was a long pause, then Renarin looked up, his movements slow—as if impeded by a great weight of stone. He blinked. “Yes?”

  Merin pointed toward the sky. “I just noticed those smoke trails—they’re probably from burning stations.”

  Renarin blinked, then slowly stood, eyes becoming more alert. It’s like he has to pull himself away from . . . somewhere else, Merin thought. Like he has to rejoin this world before he can interact.

  “They’re close,” Renarin said in a monotone voice, moving over to stand beside Merin.

  Merin nodded. “We stopped too early. We could have made it tonight after all.”

  Renarin stood for a moment, looking up into the night sky, the last waves of dusk creeping away in the west. “You want to go on?” he finally asked.

  “Yes,” Merin said eagerly. “Probably better to go at night anyway. We’ll need to sneak past the king’s lines and get into Jezenrosh’s camp.”

  “All right,” Renarin said, though he turned his eyes toward the campfire as he spoke, staring down at the ground. Toward his strange notations.

  Merin hurriedly gathered their supplies and repacked the saddlebags. Renarin watched the ground until Merin stamped out the embers, stealing the light.

  “We should probably lead the horses in the darkness,” Renarin said, accepting his beast’s reins from Merin.

  “All right,” Merin said, leading the way to the south, toward the lines of smoke. Fortunately, Renarin followed, trailing along behind like a wisp from their now-dead fire.

  You shouldn’t be so worried about him, Merin told himself. Everyone says that Renarin is strange, and you haven’t really known him that long. Maybe this kind of distraction is actually normal for him.

  Better to worry about more pertinent problems—like exactly how they were going to find Aredor. Merin had mentioned sneaking past the king’s lines and entering Jezenrosh’s camp, but he doubted it would be that simple. For one thing, there was a good chance that Jezenrosh had chosen to remain besieged in his city rather than face Elhokar in the open. If that were the case, Merin wasn’t sure how they were going to get past the city walls.

  What would Merin and Renarin do if confronted by scouts or sentries? And, assuming they did find Aredor, how were they going to persuade him to return? Aredor hadn’t been willing to listen to such arguments on the day he left Kholinar; what made Merin think this time would be different?

  He expected us to come, Merin thought. He left instructions regarding us. He thought we might come and help him—come fight with him.

  And he probably had a right to expect it of them. Leaving Kholinar had been an act of disobedience itself—what more would it hurt by joining Aredor in his fight? Could Lord Dalenar really blame Merin if he were acting alongside the man’s own sons?

  The hike took longer than it might have during the day, but it still only took them about an hour to reach Crossguard. Merin kept careful, but untrained, watch for any scouts or sentries—knowing with a sort of resigned gloom that he probably wouldn’t see them before he himself was spotted. Strangely, however, he didn’t see anything—nor was he stopped by oncoming soldiers. In fact, Merin rounded a hillside and practically stumbled into the camp itself.

  Merin quickly ducked back into the shadows, waving Renarin to follow. The sky was lit by fires and torches, but Merin had incorrectly judged the light’s proximity.

  “Leave the horses,” Merin whispered, bending down to tie his reins to a rockbud polyp. Then he waved Renarin to follow as he scuttled up the hillside.

  The camp below was arranged in a familiar fashion. Those tents and neat blocks had been the patterns of Merin’s life for a very long time. There were far more burning stations than he had expected, and the scent of smoke was strong in the air. The city of Crossguard was a dark block in the near distance—more like a large keep than a proper city.

  Renarin shuffled beside him. “This is wrong, Merin,” he whispered. “Too much fire.”

  “There was a lot of death this day,” Merin said with a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “No,” Renarin said. “Not just that. Those are the fires of death, but also of victory. This war is over. We are too late.”

  “That can’t be,” Merin said. “Look—lights burn atop the city wall, and the keep looks like it’s occupied. There’s too much . . .”

  Merin trailed off as Renarin pointed toward the city. At first, Merin couldn’t make out the reason for the gesture, but slowly his eyes discerned shapes half-hidden in the darkness. He could see through the wall in one entire section, could see the twinkling of lights beyond. An enormous chunk of the wall was simply . . . missing.

  “Awakeners,” Renarin whispered.

  Merin closed his mouth, Renarin’s hushed word hanging like a dread curse. Never, during the entire Prallah war, had the king used his Awakeners in battle. Lord Dalenar would have forbidden it—but now, that restriction was gone. Even still, to use Awakeners against his own kinsmen . . .

  “Aredor,” Merin said, standing. “We have to find him.”

  Renarin reached out, grabbing ahold of the edge of Merin’s cloak. “We’re too late, Merin,” he whispered.

  Merin pulled the cloak free. “Wait here,” he said. “I’m just going to go look around a bit. I have to find out what happened to Aredor. If the king has him in captivity, Lord Dalenar needs to know.”

  Merin continued down the side of the hill. A part of him realized that he wasn’t thinking rationally, that he didn’t want to consider the implication of Renarin’s statement. But what was he supposed to do? Come all this way, then turn around and face Lord Dalenar’s disappointment without even a word of news about his son and heir?

  As Merin strode forward in the night, he heard Renarin scramble up behind him. “Put up your hood,” Renarin said. “Our cloaks are Kholin blue, and you have a Shardblade. If we stay away from the main camp, maybe no one will notice that we bear my father’s glyph.”

  Merin nodded, doing as suggested. He rested his Shardblade on his shoulder, then continued forward in the night, walking directly toward the gap in the city wall. Men in Elhokar’s army might recognize him, but the townspeople of Crossguard wouldn’t. Perhaps some of them could give news.

  If they’re not all cowering in their stormcellars. In fact, King El
hokar probably declared a curfew. That’s what he did in all the Prallan cities we captured. What am I doing? This is foolish!

  But he’d been foolish twice before. He’d jumped to attack a Shardbearer while the rest of his squad scattered, grabbing ahold of an armored man and pulling him from his mount. He’d stood beside Aredor to fight two experienced duelists with superior equipment. Both times bravery had served him well.

  The few soldiers they passed bowed and moved quickly away, seeing the Blade but not the shadowed faces. Merin approached the Crossguard walls, each step seeming to take him into a deeper state of numbness. Chunks of rock lay scattered across the ground around the gap in the wall—the Awakeners had only needed to destroy the foundations, and the section of stone had collapsed. The broken hole in the wall approached with the looming despair of a city shattered. Defeated. Conquered.

  Two lines of torches stood just inside the gap, running corridor-like into the city. As Merin grew closer, he realized that there was something standing in-between each pair of torches. Something vaguely illuminated by their light, something thin.

  “Merin, let’s turn back,” Renarin encouraged. His voice seemed distant. Removed.

  Merin stepped up to the gap in the wall. It was at least a hundred feet across. The torches were closer now, and he walked toward the line closest to him. It was odd to find no sentries by the city wall. Perhaps Elhokar didn’t see anything else to fear from Crossguard. There was some movement inside the city, mostly what looked like guard patrols in the streets. Merin had been right—there would be no interviewing city occupants this night. However, Merin’s interest no longer lay in the townspeople. He walked up to the lines of torches, toward the objects they guarded.

  “Merin . . .” Renarin said.

  Merin ignored him, striding right up to the first pair of torches, where he found Aredor waiting for him. The heir’s decapitated head was strangely recognizable. For some reason, that didn’t seem right. This gruesome thing stuck to a spear shouldn’t have been so familiar, shouldn’t have reminded Merin of laughter and camaraderie. He should have seen only death in it, not a strong reminder of the man who had befriended and guided him.