The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  Merin turned back toward Renarin. The boy stood with sorrow, his torchlit features hauntingly similar to the ones atop the spear. “He’s dead, Merin,” Renarin whispered. “We couldn’t have changed that. We were too far away, and we left too late.”

  Merin turned back to Aredor. “This isn’t the way it was supposed to be, Aredor,” he said. “I came to get you, to take you back . . .”

  “Merin,” Renarin said with a quiet urgency. “Those guards have noticed us. We should go.”

  Merin stared into Aredor’s dark, dead eyes. Why? Why wasn’t I in time? Where is the Almighty now? He helped me save the king’s life twice, only so that very man could kill Aredor? Where is the justice in that?

  “Merin!” Renarin said with further urgency. Merin allowed the boy to pull him away from the line of torches and its grisly faces. As the faces fell into darkness, however, the questions they asked didn’t leave Merin alone. It was fortuitous that they managed to reach their horses without incident, but Merin barely noticed. His body did its duty, carrying him forward as they untied their horses and escaped out into the night—heading west, toward Kholinar, for lack of anything else to do. They rode silently.

  Aredor can’t be dead. That thing atop the spear; it wasn’t him. Merin didn’t want to think, he just wanted to walk in the darkness. What was the use of Bajerden and Sheneres, the Arguments and nobility, if they didn’t protect the men who followed them?

  Neither man spoke complaint as they trudged eastward, riding impassively for hours. Merin wanted to be far away from that place, for he knew when he finally did lay down to sleep, he would see dead eyes watching him, accusatory, in his sleep. He was actually surprised when a shadow appeared before him, and he realized a faint light was shining on the horizon behind him. Had they really walked that long?

  A voice suddenly snapped in the air.

  The figures were upon them like a sudden storm, pulling Merin to the ground and ripping his Shardblade from his fingers. He cried out as something heavy pressed against his back, holding him down.

  The voice sounded again, speaking in a language Merin didn’t understand. Rough hands grabbed Merin, hauling him to his feet. Dazed, he saw Renarin undergoing similar treatment a short distance away. A group of soldiers in Aleth blue surrounded them, watching with wary eyes. The king’s soldiers.

  Merin shook his head, trying to dispel his stupor. Had they really been tracked all this time? Followed by . . .

  “Where is the Lady Kholin?” the voice demanded, speaking Aleth with a strange accent. The speaker was the only one who didn’t wear blue, but was instead dressed in simple brown clothing of little note. His face, however, was odd. His eyes were wide—a little too big, like those of a child—and his skin had a bleached paleness to it.

  “Where is the Lady Kholin?” the man repeated. His voice was calm, but there was a danger to it—an implication that his was a question best answered as quickly, and as truthfully, as possible.

  “Lady Jasnah?” Merin said with true confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  The strange man frowned slightly. He stepped forward, moving with an almost inhuman litheness, slinking like a passing breeze and not a creature of flesh. He studied Merin for a moment, then turned to Renarin.

  “I recognize you,” the strange man said in his lightly accented voice. “The son of Dalenar Kholin.”

  Renarin hung limply in his captor’s arms.

  The stranger watched them both for a moment. “These are not the ones we are looking for,” he finally said. “But the king may desire to speak with them. Regardless, they cannot be released now. Bind them and search them for weapons.”

  Their captors moved to comply, quickly binding Merin’s arms. He didn’t struggle until he saw one of the men holding his Shardblade. The man raised a rock toward the pommel.

  “No!” Merin yelled, suddenly frantic. His hundred days was nearly up. He almost had the Blade bound. If he lost it now . . .

  One of the soldiers cuffed Merin neatly on the side of the head, dazing him. The other man let the rock fall, knocking the nearly-blackened opal free from its bindings. Merin watched with despair as the gemstone fell to the stones, discarded as useless.

  Merin watched with stupefaction, his head throbbing from the blow. It took a sudden motion from the side to make him focus again.

  Renarin was free.

  The boy jumped away from the soldiers, clutching something protectively in his fingers: his onyx sphere. He turned to dash away, but one of the soldiers tackled him, throwing him to the ground. The sphere flew free from protective fingers, smashing to the ground a short distance from Merin. The sphere shattered as stone met stone, scattering dark chips into the air.

  Renarin cried out in despair, scrambling forward, then falling to the ground as one of the soldiers grabbed his foot.

  Merin yanked against his surprised captor’s grip, free for a sudden and marvelous moment.

  Then he was there, the Shin man, moving like flowing water. He grabbed Merin by the neck and threw him down with a smooth spin of the body. Arms still tied, Merin hit the ground hard, and blackness took him.

  chapter 49

  Jasnah 11

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but there just aren’t any horses to be found.”

  Jasnah frowned. Twentieth Lord Nivedelesh, Lord Ivenal’s steward, was an aging man who appeared to have seen some battle in his younger days, for his face bore a massive scar that left part of his scalp hairless. If he noticed the oddity of being questioned by a woman—rather than Meridas—he made no outward display.

  “Not even one?” Jasnah prodded. The innkeeper had provided one of his back sleeping chambers to her for use as an ‘audience hall.’ The decorations were of a faux lavishness, with just enough seasilk, marble, and expensive woods to give hints of richness. The room was uncomfortably hot—Jasnah had accustomed herself to life in Ral Eram, and the city’s elevation had kept its temperatures chill even during the summer. It had been some time since Jasnah had been forced to spend the Searing out in the countryside.

  Her high-backed chair, at least, was comfortable, and the local maids had cleaned and perfumed her dress, removing most of the stains. They couldn’t do anything about the tattered edges or ripped side, but at least it was a little more presentable. She sat, keeping her posture lady-like despite the heat, as the steward spoke.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” the man said. “But Lord Ivenal was commanded to collect every horse the town could provide. King Elhokar needed them to march against the fallen Parshen of Crossguard. We sent every beast in every stable—though that was, in truth, a small number. We are not a rich town, my lady, and horses are a great expense. Even my lord himself kept only six.”

  Jasnah kept her face calm, but inside she seethed at her lack of options. She could, of course, continue on to another town and ask for mounts there. However, she had an unsettling feeling that if Ivenal had been commanded to send for all his horses, the other lords in this area would have been given the same order. Southwestern Alethkar was one of Elhokar’s main bastions of support. She would have to travel halfway to Kholinar itself before she found one of Dalenar’s tribute cities, which would have remained neutral at their lord’s command.

  Her feet ached at the thought of traveling so far without horses. After just a week’s travel she felt sore and fatigued—and this week had been done at a slow pace to accommodate the wounded and elderly. She had blisters in a tenset of places, and though a pretty new set of slippers hid the bottoms of her feet, she could feel the raw flesh throbbing beneath.

  She gritted her teeth against the pains. Others had endured similar problems without complaint, and so would she. Fortunately, she probably wouldn’t have to do much more walking herself.

  “Have the messengers been sent?” she asked.

  The steward nodded. “Yes, my lady. Four of our fastest lads, two sent running to Kholinar, two sent to the king’s army, all four by different routes.”


  Jasnah nodded, trying not to feel guilt for the way she used these people. She had explained the danger to them, but sensed that they didn’t realize just how great a threat the invaders presented. The people assumed that King Elhokar, whose victories in Prallah had come with such relative ease, would similarly have little problem driving the Veden invaders from Aleth stone. They didn’t understand the army’s fatigue, the casualties they had incurred by fighting in Prallah, and the morale losses they would suffer by being forced to fight their kinsmen in Crossguard.

  Vedenar would not be under-equipped, as Pralir had been. Its soldiers would be well-trained—better warriors, even, than their Aleth counterparts. Vedenar hosted the finest weapon and armorsmiths in Kanaran Roshar, and had a military discipline as strict as Alethkar’s noble code of propriety. Elhokar would have had difficulty fending off this foe even if his men were rested and prepared.

  Jasnah dismissed the steward, sending him back to his lord’s palace. She knew he was withholding things from her—he claimed funds were low in his master’s departure, and had given her barely ten kingsmarks worth of gemstones. To a common citizen—or even many lower noblemen—that amount would be a fortune, but she had to save most of it on the chance of finding horses to purchase.

  She sighed, rising on protesting feet then waving for Kemnar and his guards to follow her from the room. A crowd no longer lingered outside the inn. The palace stormkeeper warned that the Almighty’s Bellow was now imminent, and had calculated that it would strike sometime during the next day. With the natural procrastination of man, the village people had realized they’d left a tenset separate preparations to the last moment, and the town was now furiously getting ready for the storm.

  Glad for the respite of onlookers, Jasnah passed through the common room and entered the feast hall—the large, rectangular room that had been used to feed her people the night before. It no longer bore the remnants of feasting. Taln had appropriated it, much to the inn owner’s chagrin, to be used as a base of operations. Here is where he had organized and catalogued the provisions they would need for their trek. Grains, dried meats, and waterskins lay in careful heaps, along with the weapons they had brought with them from the palace. Taln himself stood inside, beside his monk friend, looking over a scroll of paper written in his own hand. A young scribe stood at the side of the room, and she blushed as Jasnah entered, glancing down in shamed discomfort. Jasnah shook her head at the scene—Taln still seemed unaware of how unnatural his ability to read seemed to most Rosharans.

  Jasnah waved the poor girl free, and the child scampered from the room with a bow. Taln looked up from his list. “Well?” he asked.

  Jasnah shook her head. “We’ll have to do it without horses.”

  Taln nodded, scribbling something at the bottom of his list with a charcoal pen. Meridas probably wouldn’t take the news with such disconcern—the lord had spoken quite fondly of being able to ride again, as opposed to walking like common footmen.

  “I’ll need to know the size of the group, then,” Taln said. “And the path we’re going to take.”

  Jasnah folded her arms, frowning. She had put off these decisions until she knew for certain about the horses. With mounts, a quick gallop straight north—made in the hopes of outrunning any Veden spies or pursuit—would have been a distinct possibility. Without horses, however, their slow speed would make them relatively easy to locate.

  The messengers will go with speed, Jasnah told herself. Our duty is to go with safety. We must survive to bring Elhokar news, should the messengers fail.

  “Very well,” she said. “We’ll do as you recommend.”

  Taln kept his smile to himself, though she could see the sparkle of satisfaction in his eyes. She could think of no better plan, however, than to travel north through Riemak. A direct path to Kholinar would be suicide if they really were being pursued, and a diversion to the east would only place them closer to Ral Eram and its invaders. Striking west, into less-known and less-inhabited lands, made simple and strategic sense. If Taln thought, however, that she would be diverted even further—even if only for a few days—by taking him to the Holy City, he was mistaken.

  “The group will be myself, you, Kemnar, Meridas, Kemnar’s three guards, and four packmen,” Jasnah informed him.

  Taln smiled visibly this time. They would be leaving behind most of Meridas’s coven of followers. The group would become a small, efficient fighting party, rather than a band of refugees. They hardly needed to worry about attacks from Riemak bandits—not with three Shardbearers in their company—and a small party would help them remain undetected.

  “Brother Lhan comes as well,” Taln said, gesturing to the monk. “Or, would you have us go without Vorin blessings?”

  Jasnah frowned, but said, “Very well.” She wasn’t certain what function the monk served—he had taken very little part in the leadership of their group, though he did seem to enjoy spending time with servants. He professed no knowledge of fighting, and even less knowledge of geography or strategy. Yet Taln seemed to rely on him.

  As Taln turned to make further scribbles on his scroll, Jasnah noticed something odd. There were only two windows in this room, but both were crowded with faces watching from outside. She cocked her head—the other room, and her own audience chamber, had been free of gawkers. Yet here, a room containing nothing more interesting than supplies, seemed a center of distinct attention. Why . . . ?

  Jasnah’s curiosity tapered as she heard a word float from a whispered conversation happening outside the near window. “Herald.”

  “Madman!” she snapped, drawing Taln’s attention from the cluster of lanterns and oil beside which he knelt. “Have you been preaching to these people?”

  “Preaching?” he asked with amusement.

  “You know . . .” she said. “About who you think you are.”

  Taln smiled. “I have told them of my mission, yes,” he said. “And explained the coming dangers.”

  “I commanded you not to do so!” she said.

  “No, actually. You did not,” he said. “Or, at least, not since our agreement began.”

  “Well, I intended to,” Jasnah said.

  “Even when I had my powers, Lady Jasnah, they did not extend to mind-reading. Or, at least, not the reading of human minds.”

  Jasnah felt frustration rising within. His careful practicality had lulled her, almost letting her forget about his insanity. This was no loyal servant or capable soldier, she reminded herself. This was a deranged man who could not separate fact from fantasy. His delusions seemed harmless, but only because they had yet to spark a catastrophe.

  “Well, you shall no longer—”

  “Jasnah,” Taln said, quietly, yet forcefully, interrupting her. “If you wish to see a Herald become oathbreaker, finish that command. I will not forsake my sacred duties simply to honor a manipulatory bargain made with a spoiled noblewoman.”

  Jasnah felt her face brighten with rage and embarrassment that the onlooking peasants should see her so contradicted. She forced herself to at least appear calm, clenching her teeth and adapting the stoneish demeanor that so often gave her strength.

  Taln looked back at his ledger, his face betraying a slight amount of guilt, as if he regretted the harshness of his words. “You don’t think they were talking, anyway?” he asked. “The ones from the palace, the ones who saw me fight and open a passage through the depths of the mountain. I heard them speaking to the townsfolk about me, and decided that it was better that I give them truth as opposed to rumors.”

  Truth. Jasnah glanced toward the windows, where the people watched with still anticipation. The city was small—really more of an overgrown farming community than an urban trading center. Its people’s Vorin training would be strongly corrupted by mystical Elinrah teachings, which focused so intensely on the deific nature of the Heralds and waited breathlessly for apocalyptic Returns. They would be easily fooled by one as charismatic as Taln, especially considering his obvious tal
ent with swords and his propensity for ignoring social conventions.

  “These people don’t need a Herald, Taln,” she said. “They have enough troubles already. Their nation has been invaded by an outside force.”

  “Only a hint of the chaos to come, I fear,” Taln whispered.

  Jasnah’s retort was interrupted by motion from the common room. She turned as Meridas entered, resplendent in what was obviously a new seasilk outfit. Deep maroon in color, the ensemble had a pair of open-cuffed, straight trousers, a white seasilk shirt, and a long, open-fronted sencoat instead of a cloak. The black leather belt was wide and bejeweled. The change was hardly necessary. His blue wedding outfit had been martially cut, and had worn well during their travels. Briefly, Jasnah regretted dividing their provision funds between Taln and Meridas. Apparently, the merchant nobleman had a different interpretation of ‘necessary provisions’ from Jasnah. She had expected him to purchase extra cloaks and strong boots, not fine new outfits.

  Before she could object, however, Meridas waved for an overweight, well-dressed man to enter. He bore bejeweled fingers, but wore no sword. Probably not a nobleman, but a very high-ranked citizen.

  The man eyed her, rubbing one of his chins. “Yes, my lord,” he said. “She is slight of build, but not incredibly so. My tailors should be able to alter some things for her rather quickly. You’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Meridas said.

  The merchant nodded. “I’ll have my girls work through the highstorm. By the time you go, your betrothed will have a wardrobe to match her station.”

  A master tailor, then—a First or Second Citizen who supervised a large group of underworkers. “Your efforts are appreciated, master . . .” she said.

  “Mendalin,” the man said, bowing.