The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  Jek shook his head. “The first rule of assassination is surprise,” he said. He turned, meeting Ahven’s eyes. “And that is exactly what you are doing—trying to assassinate an entire army.”

  Ahven cocked his head, then smiled deeply at the analogy. “Well put,” he said, kicking his horse forward.

  Jek followed, guiding his horse down a short incline toward the army’s sheltered hiding place. There were some fifty thousand men in the force—a considerable number, though they were forced to travel without archer towers. Ahven kept a tenset of Awakeners to provide food and water for the men, and there were an impressive sixty Shardbearers in the troop. From the latest reports, King Elhokar would be hard pressed to provide three fourths their numbers, even if the battle for Crossguard had gone well.

  Ahven’s pavilion lay in the nobleman’s quarter of the camp, and he rode toward it with a reaffirmed regal air, daring show no fatigue despite the extended ride. Soldiers paused in their chores as the king passed, their eyes showing excited realization. Ahven’s arrival marked the end of waiting; the king wouldn’t have left the safety of Ral Eram unless he intended to attack. The captains wouldn’t give the order to disassemble the camp until the following morning, but only the dull-minded or unobservant would be caught surprised.

  They reached the royal pavilion, and Jek climbed off his horse, annoyed at the slight soreness he still felt after his extended ride searching for Lady Jasnah. No Shin man should suffer from going horseback; his people raised and trained most of the beasts ridden here in the east. Yet, forced to serve another’s will as he was, Jek often didn’t have time for daily riding exercises. He either spent his days in continuous riding to fulfill some assassination order, or he spent them cramped within one blasphemous stone room or another. There was no moderation.

  Jek stretched, then followed Ahven and the king’s bodyguards into the royal tent.

  Someone was waiting for them.

  Jek reached the intruder first, of course. He snapped across the pavilion’s rug, drawing his yahnakatakat before the guards even realized the room was occupied. Jek positioned himself between the intruder and Ahven, reflexively moving to protect the man who was his enslaver, and had his long-bladed knife at the intruder’s neck within three heartbeats.

  The old man did not flinch. He sat pleasantly in Ahven’s chair, as if unconcerned about the blade pressed against his skin.

  Ahven regarded the intruder with curious eyes that showed only a shade of worry. He pushed back the tent flap, waving for one of the door guards to enter. “Did you let this man in?” he asked the soldier.

  The guard paled. “My lord, no! We let no one pass!”

  Ahven nodded, waving the soldier away. The king turned back toward the intruder, his expression growing even more intrigued.

  The intruder said nothing. Jek held his knife still, his muscles tense. There was something strange about the intruder, something subtly unnatural about the way the man had remained motionless as Jek struck. In appearance, the intruder was mostly unremarkable. He was irregularly straight-backed for his age, and his silver hair was full and well-groomed. His wrinkled skin was aged, but his body wasn’t decrepit. He looked more . . . stately than he did elderly.

  “I fell like I should recognize you, old man,” Ahven noted carefully.

  “We have never met, Ahven Vedenel,” the intruder said, the movements of his jaw pressing his neck against Jek’s blade and drawing blood. “Though I have watched you for some time. Taking Alethkar is a bold move—one I had always hoped you would attempt.”

  Ahven stood thoughtfully for a moment, studying the intruder, before finally adopting a confused expression. “You’re the old Aleth king’s stormkeeper,” he said. “The one called Balenmar.”

  The intruder, Balenmar, nodded slightly—though Jek’s knife kept the motion to a minimum.

  “Where is the Lady Jasnah?” Ahven asked, taking a step forward.

  “I hear that she escaped into the caves beneath the city,” Balenmar said. “She always was a clever child.”

  “You did not go with her?” Ahven asked.

  “No.”

  “Then how did you escape my soldiers?”

  The intruder simply smiled. “You are an interesting man, Ahven Vedenel,” he said. “Whether you are clever or foolhardy, I have yet to determine. Either way, I have decided that I can be of use to you. So, I have come to offer my services as an advisor.”

  Ahven snorted. “You expect me to trust a man who so easily betrays his homeland in favor of its invader?”

  Balenmar shrugged. “Trust? No, I don’t expect your trust. But, do you ‘trust’ the would-be king who fights at your side, a man barely quelled by the prospect of a grandson on the throne? How about the Shin assassin who holds his knife so diligently at my throat—a man who would betray you without thought if you happened to misplace his Bondstone? Do you really trust anyone around you, Ahven Vedenel? What is trust to a man like you?”

  “True,” Ahven admitted. “But each of those you describe, trustworthy or not, brings me an edge I could not otherwise obtain. You, however, have a very poor record as an advisor. King Nelshenden lies in the catacombs of Ral Eram, dead at the hand of his best friend, and his son is about to fall to my armies. Your advice seems to have been of little productive use.”

  Balenmar snorted. “I’m an informant, not a bodyguard,” he said. “Besides, neither man—son or father—had keen enough ears for my suggestions. If they had listened, perhaps they would still live. Don’t make their same mistake.”

  Jek could tell, however, that Ahven was no longer paying attention. The king’s eyes had moved away from the captive man’s lips, and he was thinking carefully to himself. Would Ahven execute the old man, torture him, or simply hold him for later purposes? Jek thought he knew which Ahven would choose—the Idiot King was not fond of loose ends, or of men who knew too much about him.

  “I can give you Jasnah Kholin,” Balenmar said idly.

  Jek glanced toward Ahven, and saw that the king had noticed the words.

  “There are only a few exits from those caverns,” Balenmar continued. “They all open out onto the eastern side of the mountain. Too far from Crossguard to be of use to King Elhokar, but dangerously close to Kholinar. What do you think, Ahven Vedenel? Can your armies face both Elhokar and Dalenar at once? Elhokar might be a fool, but his reckless temper should not be underestimated. How would your army fare against Elhokar’s ferocity if the calm rock of the Tyrantbane were pressing you from the east?”

  “You can tell my men how to get through the caverns?” Ahven asked.

  “Bring in a scribe,” Balenmar said. “I’ll give precise directions.”

  Ahven didn’t move immediately. Eventually, the lure proved too great, and he waved for a soldier to relay the message. Then the king nodded to Jek, who slowly lowered the blade from the old man’s neck.

  Balenmar smiled pleasantly, pulling out a handkerchief and carefully wiping the trickle of blood from his neck.

  “What do you ask in return for this knowledge?” Ahven asked, eyes still suspicious.

  “Nothing you aren’t already willing to give,” Balenmar said.

  “Be more specific,” Ahven ordered.

  Balenmar’s affable smile didn’t leave his eyes as he spoke. “Just make certain your men kill Lady Jasnah and her companions on sight. None of them must survive.”

  chapter 52

  Dalenar 4

  Highstorm clouds bulged in the distance. It had only been twenty days since the last storm, but it seemed like so much longer. The lait’s plants drooped in the constant sunlight, many retreating within their shells. What had been green just a week before was now withered and wan. The great Kholinar river had slowed to practically a trickle. The effects of the Searing were strong here, even in the most fertile area of Alethkar.

  But a highstorm was coming at last. And it was no ordinary storm—this was the Almighty’s Bellow, most powerful and impressive stor
m of the year. It would bring both life and destruction. Outside the lait, in the less-​sheltered farmlands, all spring crops would have long been harvested. Most people would be tucked within safe granite homes; those too poor to afford good stone houses would wait in the village stormshelter. No man—beggar, thief, or traveler—would be abandoned to the Bellow’s fury.

  In the lait, less concern was necessary. Yet even here they had to be cautious. The Bellow’s power would be dulled by the steep valley walls, but not rendered impotent. Wise men remained indoors.

  Dalenar stayed on his balcony, watching the storm approach. During recent weeks, it seemed he had little reason to call himself ‘wise.’ He knew not how Merin and Renarin had managed to elude his trackers, but he was only mildly surprised at the feat. Both boys had often proven themselves too clever for their own good. Dalenar kept his men searching, but he had little hope that he would discover them before they arrived at their destination. Even riding at a moderate pace, two unencumbered men would have been able to reach Crossguard in two week’s time.

  All of Kholinar knew of the disappearance, of course. Most people had even guessed at the boys’ destination. What had been a scandal when Aredor left had since become a catastrophe. Dalenar’s men reported a feeling of unrest in the town. The barrooms were full of questions wondering who would be heir, and postulations on whether or not Dalenar would have the honor to disinherit both of his sons. Even quieter were the grumbles that claimed the boys were right—that it was wrong to wait like women when the rest of the kingdom fought. Dalenar had lost his courage, they whispered. The Tyrantbane no longer had the will to fight.

  And they were right. Dalenar knew they were. His neutrality was a weak move, an indication of uncertainty. The old Dalenar would never have done such a thing—he would have made a decision, then followed it with tenacity, no matter what the consequences. That was honor. Holding to one’s word, and being willing to give it in the first place.

  Instead, he waited. Without the Oathgates, and with the river being too low to carry boats, information from the east was scarce. The battle would have started days ago. Men probably fought and died even as Dalenar stared at the approaching clouds. Or perhaps the fighting was over. Elhokar would have had to strike quickly to counteract the grumblings of his allies, who were already fatigued from several years at war.

  Dalenar gritted his teeth, fingers gripping his balcony’s stone rail. He needed information. In the past, he had been one of the first to receive battlefield news. This time, however, he had placed himself in a tangential position—since he had chosen to support neither combatant, neither would see any urgency in keeping him informed. That left him with his own messengers, sent to gather what they could. These were few, however—Aredor, Renarin, and Merin’s pilferings, combined with the horses Dalenar had been required to give their pursuers, had left his stables depleted of its best stock.

  The storm was near. It was even darker than most, and its approach was like the shadow of night. Dalenar thought he could feel it nearing—the air cooling, as if in frightened worry. The breeze curling with anticipatory winds. While his cultured Vorin senses reminded him that there was nothing mystical in the storms, he couldn’t help shivering slightly as the Bellow approached. Its unnatural blackness. Its expected rage. Its inevitability.

  A rider appeared on the lait ridge.

  The man sped down the switchbacks at a reckless pace, his cloak flapping with familiar blue. The land darkened behind him, water beginning to pour down the rocky slopes. In the distance, Dalenar could hear a low roar—the surging Kholinar river, swelling in its banks as sudden and furious waters fed its long-dried thirst. The rider reached the base of the slope as the rains overtook him, obscuring Dalenar’s view.

  A moment later, darkness took the palace, and a wave of wind-driven rains smashed into Dalenar. He tightened his grip on the rail, squinting his eyes in the powerful tempest. All was dark. He felt his cloak writhing and whipping behind him. Chill water bit his skin, instantly soaking his clothing. He could hear nothing beyond the incessant slam of raindrops against stone.

  He took one rain-laced breath, then fled into his rooms, throwing his weight against the stormshutters and closing them behind him. Compared to the chaos outside, even the rattling shutters and background roar of the rain seemed peaceful. Dalenar wiped his face, dripping water onto the sittingroom rugs. Kalkanah would have been furious; Kinae would only see them cleaned and dried, offering neither complaint or reprimand.

  Dalenar stood for a moment, thinking about the messenger. The man’s news was probably inconsequential. It was unlikely that he was a rider from Crossguard; he was probably just one of Renarin’s pursuers, returning to give further word of defeat. Or perhaps he was just a rider from one of the outer tribute cities, come to make a report.

  Yet why would such a man have risked the Bellow? Why ride with such direct zeal, rather than stopping for shelter? A quiet, worried impression told Dalenar to seek refuge from the news as he had fled the storm winds. There was something very wrong about the messenger’s arrival.

  Dalenar quietly changed his clothing, then walked through hushed hallways toward his audience chamber. Servants and minor attendants watched him, yet none moved to speak or interrupt. He arrived at the hall and seated himself his chair.

  All was still. Then the audience doors burst open.

  The messenger stood haggard and wet. “My lord,” he gasped, apparently surprised to find Dalenar already waiting in the chamber. He fell to one knee, though he looked so wearied he could barely maintain the posture.

  “Speak,” Dalenar said.

  “My lord . . .” the man said, trailing off, a look of despair in his eyes. He was one of the men Dalenar had sent to Crossguard. The messenger looked up, gathering strength, but Dalenar knew the words before they were spoken.

  “My lord,” the messenger said, “your son, Aredor Kholin, is dead.”

  Dalenar didn’t react. He didn’t yell out his grief, cry out in pain, or even close his eyes in mourning.

  “How?” Dalenar asked, surprised at the stiff strength in his voice.

  “Executed, my lord,” the messenger said. “By the king, along with Lord Jezenrosh and his sons. Crossguard fell eight days ago, the walls destroyed by Awakeners. The king himself led the charge inside.”

  “Renarin?” Dalenar asked.

  “No word, my lord,” the messenger said, looking down. “But . . .”

  Dalenar nodded. The boy had no Shardblade. There was a good chance that, if killed, Renarin would be ignored amongst the bodies.

  A small group of noblemen was gathering behind the messenger, just outside the audience hall. Dalenar saw confusion and shock. And, with those emotions, he saw something else—something Dalenar felt burning within his own breast. Something stronger than fatigue, surprise, or even logic.

  Anger.

  Dalenar stood. The noblemen outside stopped their whispering and waited with expectant eyes.

  “Lord Echathen,” Dalenar said, still amazed that his voice could sound so solid and determined when, within, pain squirmed and wept. “You made an offer to me the first day of your arrival a week ago.”

  The firm-faced man stepped to the front of the group and nodded. “I remember, Lord Dalenar.”

  “Gather your allies and mine,” Dalenar commanded. “Prepare them for war. Tell them . . . Tell them that the Tyrantbane is needed again.”

  chapter 53

  Jasnah 12

  Their inn had its own Stormshelter, and Meridas appropriated it for Jasnah, himself, and the other noblemen—including, much to his obvious regret, Taln and Brother Lhan. By Jasnah’s order, Meridas had grudgingly consented to let the innkeeper, his family, and several other high-ranked citizens share the space as well.

  Not that there wasn’t enough of it. The inn stormshelter was broad, and looked to be of unworked stone—the building had probably been built in this location to monopolize on a natural cavern. The shelter obv
iously doubled as a cellar for the inn, and it was cluttered with boxes of winebottles and other provisions. Even with such, however, there was plenty of room—enough that Jasnah felt guilty for letting Meridas insist that the other refugees be housed in the city’s common shelter, which was undoubtedly crowded with travelers.

  Still, the shelter’s emptiness did make for comfort. Jasnah sat in a chair brought down from above, and had situated it near one of the room’s four lanterns, ostensibly so she could study a book she had borrowed from the monastery. She was too nervous to read, however. She told herself that it had nothing to do with superstition—that she didn’t give any heed to the stories of Stormshades or other creatures that were supposed to stalk the land during this, the grandest highstorm of the year. Yet she felt an eerie sense of foreboding as she sat in the dark, cave-like shelter. She could barely hear the tempest’s fury overhead—only the occasional noise of distant-sounding winds, mingled with the sound of a leak dripping lethargically, gave clue of what occurred above. Somehow the sounds seemed all the more haunting for their unobtrusiveness.

  Jasnah wasn’t the only one in the room who appeared a bit fidgety. Theirs was an impatient group. They planned to begin their march northward as soon as the Bellow ended, giving them a full twenty days of travel before the threat of another highstorm. It made sense to wait out the Bellow in Marcabe, but Taln had finished preparing their provisions early the previous day, and they had only needed to wait a little longer for their clothing to be finished. They could have left long before, had the Bellow not been imminent.

  Instead they waited, Taln’s warnings of pursuit tickling their minds, mingling with thoughts of an invading army sneaking cleverly through the Oathgates, slowly approaching the weakened Aleth armies.

  Jasnah sighed. For the moment, her mind should be focused on their travel to Kholinar. Water would be tight, but Taln was confident they could make it—without horses to worry about missing footing on the uneven ground, they could travel mostly at night and conserve liquids. He did suggest, however, that they remain close enough to the Aleth border that they could seek out a village in case of an emergency.