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  His enthusiasm dulled slightly, however, as he reached the camp’s main thoroughfare. To his right, in the distance, he could see the white-and-blue banner marking Zircon Tensquad, his home of the last three years. A home to which he could not return.

  He looked down at the Blade. It was awkward to carry with its incredible length and super-sharp edge. It glistened in the sunlight, its quartz-like patterns shimmering. Apparently, they would fade over time. The markings were a manifestation of the bond the sword had had with its master—a man who was now dead.

  He couldn’t return to Zircon Tensquad, but that was only a manifestation of a larger issue. What of home? What of Stonemount, with its fields and simple farmers? No Shardbearers lived in small tribute villages—the ballads said they were needed at the sides of their lords, to go to war or to duel for honor. He would never be able to return to Stonemount. But he had no lordly family to honor and protect. He no longer had a place—not really a citizen, but not really a lord either.

  Not really a lord at all. Merin knew all the songs, from “The Chronicle of the First Return” to “The Storms of Summer.” He wasn’t a man like those in the stories. He was a boy who had acted without thought. His rescuing of the king had been done out of reflex and luck, not out of heroism. He hadn’t even really killed the enemy Shardbearer, only distracted him.

  This shouldn’t be mine, Merin thought. Surely someone will realize that.

  He looked up, turning from Zircon Tensquad’s tents and looking to the northern side of the camp—toward the tents of the noblemen. He would find his answers there.

  He began walking through the camp. Men bustled around him, collapsing tents, carrying supplies, packing equipment. Once, he would have been befuddled by the enormous number of people. Stonemount was a Tenth City, a village of less than five hundred people. The tens of thousands that comprised the King’s Army had amazed him. Over time, however, the amazing had become mundane.

  He passed massive chulls rested within their pens, the sound of crunching rockbuds echoing from within their boulder-like shells. Dark-eyed Kaven tribesmen watched him as he passed, speaking to each other in their rumbling language. Soldiers yelled and barked, giving and receiving orders, preparing for the movement of a beast larger even than the chulls—the army itself. It was a mass of swarming men, every one of whom seemed to have a purpose.

  Every one but Merin.

  The nobleman’s section wound around several hills which provided seclusion from both regular soldiers and highstorms. The lords each camped with their own entourage, depending on their rank and power. Here, the tents became more colorful, and the banners bore stylized—sometimes unrecognizable—glyphs instead of just simple colored stripes.

  Merin paused. The glyphs represented houses, like the Shelh glyph that the one noble family in Stonemount had used, but these were unfamiliar to Merin. Who should he ask for help?

  The tents were being collapsed, falling flat like squashed winter mushrooms. The workers were mostly soldiers. Nearby, he could see a small group of noblemen—distinguished by their dyed cloaks and seasilk clothing—watching the proceedings. Merin approached them uncertainly. He was a nobleman now, so he probably shouldn’t bow. What, then? Call out a greeting?

  The lords noticed him before he made up his mind, their conversation falling silent. Beneath their disapproving stares, Merin was suddenly aware of his own clothing—simple tan trousers and shirt, stained from several years of use beneath his armor.

  “Is that a . . . Shardblade you hold, boy?” one of the lords asked. He was a tall man, with long dark hair and a haughty, peaked face.

  “It is . . .” Merin said.

  “Who did you take it from, boy?” the lord asked, stepping forward with a curious eye.

  Merin took a step backward, grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “I was given it by order of the king,” he informed him. “On the battlefield, yesterday.”

  The nobleman frowned, pausing. He studied Merin more closely. “Ah, yes. I recognize you now.” Then, he simply snorted, and turned back to his companions. The four men continued their discussion as if Merin wasn’t even there.

  “Excuse me?” Merin asked, breaking into their conversation.

  The lead nobleman turned again, eyebrow raised. “What do you want, boy?”

  Merin flushed. “I’m just not certain what I should do,” he said. “Everybody’s preparing to leave. What’s my place?”

  “You can go help pack my tent, if you wish,” the nobleman said, waving indifferently toward a group of soldiers working a short distance away.

  Merin flushed again. Conditioning told him he should simply take the insult, but it seemed wrong to say nothing. “I don’t think you should speak to me like that,” Merin said slowly. “Doesn’t this Blade make me a lord, like you?”

  The nobleman raised an eyebrow. “A lord? Well, technically, I suppose. Like me? I think not. There are lords, boy, and there are lords.”

  “I’d be careful, Meridas,” a new voice said, coming from behind Merin. “That young man is a Shardbearer. Another insult or two, and I’d say he had legal grounds to challenge you to a lethal duel.”

  Merin froze. Meridas? He had heard that name before. Meridas was the king’s counselor—a very important man.

  Merin turned to glance behind. The newcomer was a much younger nobleman, perhaps five or six years Merin’s senior. The man stood leaning against a pile of packing crates a short distance away. His hair was light, his body lean and tall, and his seasilk shirt light blue against a darker blue cloak.

  “Why, if it isn’t Lord Aredor,” the nobleman, Meridas, said with an indifferent raise of the eyebrows.

  Lord Aredor—heir to Kholinar, son of Parshen Dalenar and cousin to the king. Merin realized with discomfort that this was the closest he’d ever stood to such noble blood.

  And he was about to get much closer. Aredor strolled over, placing a familial hand on Merin’s shoulder. “Really, Meridas. Show some respect. We owe a great debt to Lord Merin. He saved the king’s life, after all. Where were you when his majesty was in danger, Meridas? Oh, wait, that’s right. You aren’t a Shardbearer. You were hiding back on the tower.”

  Lord Meridas did not rise to the insult. His face remained calm, his head nodded slightly, as if to concede Aredor the point. His three companions—all younger men—were far more excited. Oddly, they didn’t seem angered by the newcomer’s insults, but instead seemed eager to speak with him.

  “Oh, we’ve heard of Lord Merin,” one of them said quickly. “We didn’t recognize the lad, that is all. Lord Merin! Why, they’re telling stories about him already.”

  “Indeed!” another said. “And, if I might say, my Lord Aredor, they’re also speaking of your own bravery. Is it true you bested yet another Shardbearer on the battlefield?”

  Meridas glanced at his companions with dissatisfaction. The three, however, seemed too excited by the prospect of earning Aredor’s favor to notice the disappointment.

  Aredor just smiled. “Afraid I don’t have time to talk about my ‘bravery’ at the moment, Lord Valnah. Lord Merin is desperately needed at the royal complex. Good day, Meridas.”

  Aredor turned, steering Merin by the shoulder and walking away from the group of noblemen, chuckling to himself.

  “Lord Aredor—” Merin said, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Please,” Aredor cut in, “no ‘lords.’ We’re both practically the same rank—which, by the way, is a far step above dear Meridas back there, despite the king’s fondness for him. With all his wealth, he’s only a Seventeenth Lord, which puts you twelve ranks above him.”

  “He didn’t seem to see it that way,” Merin noted.

  Aredor rolled his eyes. “Meridas is about as snobbish a lord as you’ll ever find, but don’t be bothered by him. In court, you’ll have to get used to people looking across the breeze at you. Eventually, you’ll realize that they’re the only truly harmless ones. I’m more interested in hearing how you
managed to get all the way up here. Last we heard, you were resting in the healer’s tent.”

  “I was,” Merin explained, still a little uncomfortable. Aredor was cousin to the king—even amongst noblemen, he was a very important person. “They told me I could leave, as long as I checked back with them tonight.”

  “Well, that’s good, then,” Aredor said. “Because I really am supposed to take you to the royal tents.”

  Merin paled. “The king wants to see me?”

  Aredor snorted. “I doubt Elhokar knows your name or even remembers you were given a Shardblade. No, you’re going to meet with someone far more impressive.”

  More impressive than the king? “Who?” Merin asked.

  “My father.”

  Lord Dalenar Kholin had once been described to Merin as ‘the noblest man in all of Alethkar.’ Standing before the Parshen, Merin could finally understand what those words had meant. Dalenar was large and muscular despite his age, with arms like stone and a chest broad as a boulder. Yet, there was nothing oafish in his air. He stood with an innate majesty, his eyes wise, his voice calm and stately. He wore his armor, even though there was no danger of battle, and over the glistening silver he wore a regal cloak of the deepest blue with the symbol of his house on the back. It was a large Kolh glyph—the symbol that meant power—but it had been designed with flowing lines and broad wings, as if blown upon the winds themselves. It was subtly different from the King’s own house glyph, though the two were similar enough to indicate the familial relationship.

  Dalenar spoke with a small group of older men in militaristic cloaks. They were greying and reflective; Merin thought he recognized several of them by description—generals in Lord Elhokar’s army. Lord Dalenar’s tent had already been disassembled, and his possessions sat in neat piles ready for the packmen.

  The Parshen noticed Merin almost immediately. “Excuse me, my lords,” he said. “There is a matter to which I must attend.”

  The generals nodded, walking off to their separate duties as Dalenar approached Merin. Aredor patted him on the shoulder, then withdrew, leaving him to speak with the Parshen alone.

  “I see you have recovered from the knock to your head, Lord Merin,” Dalenar noted.

  “Yes, my lord,” Merin said uncomfortably. “Thank you.”

  “I believe I have reason to give you thanks, lad,” Dalenar said. “You did your kingdom a true service on the battlefield yesterday.”

  Merin flushed. “My lord, you show me too much honor. I don’t deserve this. I . . . I wanted to ask someone about that. I think there’s been a mistake. Someone else should have this Shardblade, not me.”

  Dalenar shook his head, a bit of the formality leaving his face. “No, I think it well placed. During this war I have seen a number of Shardbearers fall. Most were killed in duels with other Shardbearers. Several were killed by archers, and a couple of others were slain by teams of Shardless noblemen. Only one was killed by a spearman.”

  Dalenar paused, leaning forward, laying a hand on Merin’s shoulder. “I stood helpless as my king was about to die,” Dalenar said quietly. “You saved him. Citizen or lord, Shardbearer or common duelist, I have rarely seen such bravery in all my years.”

  “I . . .” Merin trailed off, uncertain how to respond. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Dalenar clapped him on the shoulder. “Traditionally, a citizen made into a lord is assigned a house by the king. This is his majesty’s decision, but he has given it over to me. I would be proud if you would join my house and serve me in Kholinar.”

  “Your house, my lord?” Merin asked, stunned.

  “Yes,” Dalenar explained. “House Kholin is a proud and majestic line, Merin—the royal line. You would become Merin Kholin, a ward in my house, expected to follow my leadership and rise to my call when war is unavoidable. As compensation, you will receive the standard stipend of an attendant Shardbearer, and will become a member of my court.”

  Merin looked up—for the first time since waking, he felt like he knew exactly what to do. “I would be honored, my lord.”

  Dalenar smiled. “I take that as an oath, Merin Kholin. You must honor it as you would honor your own life. More so, even, for your oath as a Shardbearer is your oath to the kingdom itself.” He paused. “Sometimes, it may force you to do things that are . . . difficult.”

  “I understand, my lord,” Merin said.

  “Good,” Dalenar said, standing up straight. He reached up and undid the clasp to his cloak, then pulled off the luxurious, deep-blue garment and held it out to Merin. “It is traditional to present a newly-sworn Shardbearer with a gift. This cloak bears the glyph of my house, which is now your house. Wear it with pride, and let it remind you of your duty.”

  Merin balked at first, but he looked into Dalenar’s sincere eyes, and knew this was not a gift to be rejected. He reached out, taking the garment in his hand. It was soft and smooth, yet heavy in its thickness, and had the slight reflective sheen of seasilk. Perhaps it was the moment, but Merin thought that he had never seen a color quite so beautiful or brilliant as its warm sapphire.

  Merin looked up from the cloak. “My lord. I . . . I’m not sure that the others will accept me as a nobleman. The men of my squad seemed uncertain how to treat me, and the noblemen I spoke with don’t seem to consider me worthy of my title.”

  Dalenar nodded. “And they probably won’t ever consider you worthy of it. You’ve entered a harsh world, lad. It shouldn’t be so, but there are many who will dislike you. Some will even hate you.”

  Merin frowned.

  “Don’t let it bother you too much, lad,” Dalenar said. “That is just the way it is. You won’t be able to make everyone like you. But, if you keep your oaths, you might be able to make them respect you.

  “Do what is right. Be honorable, even to your enemies. Study The Way of Kings. Have the monks read it to you often, until you have it memorized. Remember what Lord Bajerden wrote: ‘Nobility is service. Rank is a privilege, not a right.’ Do these things, Merin, and even the jealous ones will admire you.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Dalenar smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t be so nervous, lad. My sons will watch out for you. Go report back to Aredor. He will see you cared for and trained in the ways of your new station.”

  chapter 4

  Taln 1

  He felt pain.

  That was wrong. He shouldn’t have been able to feel the pain, feel was too weak a word. For so long, the pain had been everything—world, dream, thought, and breath. Feeling allowed too much separation. Had he been sane enough to think, he would have yearned for a day when the pain was simply something felt.

  He felt pain.

  He gasped, a croak escaping his lips. That was wrong too. There should have been no gasping, no croaking. Only screams.

  He couldn’t understand. Comfort was an alien sensation. He writhed before the unfamiliar lack of pain, weeping. He didn’t know how long he lay with closed eyes, unable to think or speak beyond a whimper. Then, slowly, like a plant creeping from its shell, the self tentatively emerged from the place within his soul. The place of hiding, the place where a piece of him could survive.

  It brought knowledge, and memory. He pushed them away at first, then broke down and clutched them to him, a dying man drinking furiously to slake his thirst.

  The pain was there too. It had been part of him so long that, even though his body felt no torture, it would always be felt within his mind. Together with his self, he grabbed hold of the painself and forced it deep within, into the shell, pushing it away. The two pieces of him were light and dark—they could not coexist. When one emerged, the other had to retreat.

  Taln gasped in pleasure, opening his eyes. A cool sky hung above him—a blue sky, of breezes and clouds. Not a sky of fire. He had Returned.

  He lay for a long while, staring up, feeling the wind. Finally, he sat, pushing aside the wave of dizziness. He was naked, sitting on a shelf of rocks. His sword l
ay next to him. The Mount of Ancestors stood in the distance, giving a clue of his location. His mind was still fuzzy, his self not fully in control. It would take time.

  Time would have to wait. He stood, lurching to his feet, stumbling a few times and steadying himself against a boulder. Ral Eram, the First Capital. It would be near; he had to travel there.

  He needed to warn the people.

  chapter 5

  Merin 2

  Three days after the battle, clinging to his horse’s saddle as the ground blurred by below, Merin had cause to regret his oath to Lord Dalenar. Every hoofbeat jostled, threatening to hurl him to the deadly stones below. White-knuckled, he gripped the saddle, and whispered lines from the Arguments—inside, however, he doubted it would help. The Almighty allowed fools to bring their own fates, and Merin had certainly been a fool for climbing on the back of such a dreadful beast.

  Finally—blessedly—the horse lurched to a stop. Merin carefully raised his head, hands still gripping the saddle. Lords Aredor and Renarin had stopped their horses, and his own animal had followed their lead. Merin had been half-afraid that the creature would just keep on going into eternity, bearing a long-decayed Merin in its saddle.

  Lord Aredor swung off his horse, dropping to the stones below. “See,” he said, looking back with a broad grin. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  Merin shivered. “Aredor, that was the most horrible experience of my life.” The first few hours, traveling at a moderate speed, had been bad enough. Aredor hadn’t suggested a gallop until they neared their destination. Merin should have known better than to ask what, exactly, a ‘gallop’ was.

  Aredor laughed, handing his reins to an approaching soldier as his brother dismounted as well. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Merin looked woozily down at the ground, not trusting his legs to move just yet. “I think not. Man wasn’t meant to travel that fast, Aredor. It was terrifying.”