The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  Back home, the air had been drier. If you went about on the day before a highstorm, everything seemed desolate. After storms, plants soon pulled back into their shells, trunks, and hiding places to conserve water. But here in the moister climate, they lingered. Many rockbuds never quite pulled into their shells completely. Patches of grass were common. The trees Sadeas harvested were concentrated in a forest to the north of the warcamps, but a few strays grew on this plain. They were enormous, broad-trunked things that grew with a westward slant, their thick, finger like roots clawing into the stone and—over the years—cracking and breaking the ground around them.

  Kaladin hopped down from the cart. His job was to hoist up stones and place them on the bed of the vehicle. The other bridgemen brought them to him, laying them in heaps nearby.

  Bridgemen worked across the broad plain, moving among rockbuds, patches of grass, and bunches of weeds that poked out from beneath boulders. Those grew most heavily on the west side, ready to pull back into their boulder’s shadow if a highstorm approached. It was a curious effect, as if each boulder were the head of an aged man with tufts of green and brown hair growing out from behind his ears.

  Those tufts were extremely important, for hidden among them were thin reeds known as knobweed. Their rigid stalks were topped with delicate fronds that could retract into the stem. The stems themselves were immobile, but they were fairly safe growing behind boulders. Some would be pulled free in each storm—perhaps to attach themselves in a new location once the winds abated.

  Kaladin hoisted a rock, setting it on the bed of the wagon and rolling it beside some others. The rock’s bottom was wet with lichen and crem.

  Knobweed wasn’t rare, but neither was it as common as other weeds. A quick description had been enough to send Rock and Teft searching with some success. The breakthrough, however, had happened when Syl had joined the hunt. Kaladin glanced to the side as he stepped down for another stone. She zipped around, a faint, nearly invisible form leading Rock from one stand of reeds to another. Teft didn’t understand how the large Horn eater could consistently find so many more than he did, but Kaladin didn’t feel inclined to explain. He still didn’t understand why Rock could see Syl in the first place. The Horneater said it was something he’d been born with.

  A pair of bridgemen approached, youthful Dunny and Earless Jaks towing a wooden sled bearing a large stone. Sweat trickled down the sides of their faces. As they reached the wagon, Kaladin dusted off his hands and helped them lift the boulder. Earless Jaks scowled at him, muttering under his breath.

  “That’s a nice one,” Kaladin said, nodding to the stone. “Good work.”

  Jaks glared at him and stalked off. Dunny gave Kaladin a shrug, then hurried after the older man. As Rock had guessed, getting the crew assigned to stone-gathering duty had not helped Kaladin’s popularity. But it had to be done. It was the only way to help Leyten and the other wounded.

  Once Jaks and Dunny left, Kaladin nonchalantly climbed into the wagon bed and knelt down, pushing aside a tarp and uncovering a large pile of knobweed stems. They were about as long as a man’s forearm. He made as if he were moving stones around in the bed, but instead tied a large double handful of the reeds into a bundle using thin rockbud vines.

  He dropped the bundle over the side of the wagon. The wagon driver had gone to chat with his counterpart on the other wagon. That left Kaladin alone, save for the chull that sat hunkered down in its rock shell, watching the sun with beady crustacean eyes.

  Kaladin hopped down from the wagon and placed another rock in the bed. Then, he knelt as if to pull a large stone out from under the wagon. With deft hands, however, he tied the reeds into place underneath the bed right beside two other bundles. The wagon had a large open space to the side of the axle, and a wood dowel there provided an excellent place for mounting the bundles.

  Jezerezeh send that nobody thinks to check the bottom as we roll back into camp.

  The apothecary said one drop came per stem. How many reeds would Kaladin need? He felt he knew the answer to that question without even giving it much thought.

  He’d need every drop he could get.

  He climbed out and lifted another stone into the wagon. Rock was approaching; the large, tan-skinned Horneater carried an oblong stone that would have been too large for most of the bridgemen to handle alone. Rock shuffled forward slowly, Syl zipping around his head and occasionally landing on the rock to watch him.

  Kaladin climbed down and trotted across the uneven ground to help. Rock nodded in thanks. Together they hauled the stone to the wagon and set it down on the bed. Rock wiped his brow, turning his back to Kaladin. Sprouting from his pocket was a handful of reeds. Kaladin swiped them and tucked them beneath the tarp.

  “What do we do if someone notices this thing we are doing?” Rock asked casually.

  “Explain that I’m a weaver,” Kaladin said, “and that I thought I’d weave myself a hat to keep off the sun.”

  Rock snorted.

  “I might do just that,” Kaladin said. He wiped his brow. “It would be nice in this heat. But best nobody sees. The mere fact that we want the reeds would probably be enough to make them deny them to us.”

  “This thing is true,” Rock said, stretching and glancing upward as Syl zipped over in front of him. “I miss the Peaks.”

  Syl pointed, and Rock bowed his head in reverence before following after her. Once she had him going in the right direction, however, she flitted back to Kaladin, bobbing up into the air as a ribbon, then falling down to the side of the wagon and reforming her womanly shape, her dress fluttering around her.

  “I,” she declared, raising a finger, “like him very much.”

  “Who? Rock?”

  “Yes,” she said, folding her arms. “He is respectful. Unlike others.”

  “Fine,” Kaladin said, lifting another stone into the wagon. “You can follow him around instead of bothering me.” He tried not to show worry as he said it. He had grown accustomed to her company.

  She sniffed. “I can’t follow him. He’s too respectful.”

  “You just said you liked that.”

  “I do. Also, I detest it.” She said that with unaffected frankness, as if oblivious of the contradiction. She sighed, sitting down on the side of the wagon. “I led him to a patch of chull dung as a prank. He didn’t even yell at me! He just looked at it, as if trying to figure out some hidden meaning.” She grimaced. “That’s not normal.”

  “I think the Horneaters must worship spren or something,” Kaladin said, wiping his brow.

  “That’s silly.”

  “People believe much sillier things. In some ways, I guess it makes sense to revere the spren. You are kind of odd and magical.”

  “I’m not odd!” she said, standing up. “I’m beautiful and articulate.” She planted her hands on her hips, but he could see in her expression that she wasn’t really mad. She seemed to be changing by the hour, growing more and more…

  More and more what? Not exactly humanlike. More individual. Smarter.

  Syl fell silent as another bridgeman—Natam—approached. The long-faced man was carrying a smaller stone, obviously trying not to strain himself.

  “Ho, Natam,” Kaladin said, reaching down to take the stone. “How goes the work?”

  Natam shrugged.

  “Didn’t you say you were once a farmer?”

  Natam rested beside the wagon, ignoring Kaladin.

  Kaladin set down the rock, moving it into place. “I’m sorry to make us work like this, but we need the good will of Gaz and the other bridge crews.”

  Natam didn’t respond.

  “It will help keep us alive,” Kaladin said. “Trust me.”

  Natam just shrugged yet again, then wandered away.

  Kaladin sighed. “This would be a lot easier if I could pin the duty change on Gaz.”

  “That wouldn’t be very honest,” Syl said, affronted.

  “Why do you care so much about honesty?” />
  “I just do.”

  “Oh?” Kaladin said, grunting as he moved back to his work. “And leading men to piles of dung? How honest is that?”

  “That’s different. It was a joke.”

  “I fail to see how…”

  He trailed off as another bridgeman approached. Kaladin doubted anyone else had Rock’s strange ability to see Syl, and didn’t want to be seen talking to himself.

  The short, wiry bridgeman had said his name was Skar, though Kaladin couldn’t see any obvious scars on his face. He had short dark hair and angular features. Kaladin tried to engage him in conversation too, but got no response. The man even went so far as to give Kaladin a rude gesture before tromping back out.

  “I’m doing something wrong,” Kaladin said, shaking his head and hopping down from the sturdy wagon.

  “Wrong?” Syl stepped up to the lip of the wagon, watching him.

  “I thought that seeing me rescue those three might give them hope. But they’re still indifferent.”

  “Some watched you run earlier,” Syl said, “when you were practicing with the plank.”

  “They watched,” Kaladin said. “But they don’t care about helping the wounded. Nobody besides Rock, that is—and he’s only doing it because he has a debt to me. Even Teft wasn’t willing to share his food.”

  “They’re selfish.”

  “No. I don’t think that word can apply to them.” He lifted a stone, struggling to explain how he felt. “When I was a slave…well, I’m still a slave. But during the worst parts, when my masters were trying to beat out of me the ability to resist, I was like these men. I didn’t care enough to be selfish. I was like an animal. I just did what I did without thinking.”

  Syl frowned. Little wonder—Kaladin himself didn’t understand what he was saying. Yet, as he spoke, he began to work out what he meant. “I’ve shown them that we can survive, but that doesn’t mean anything. If those lives aren’t worth living, then they aren’t ever going to care. It’s like I’m offering them piles of spheres, but not giving them anything to spend their wealth on.”

  “I guess,” Syl said. “But what can you do?”

  He looked back across the plain of rock, toward the warcamp. The smoke of the army’s many cookfires rose from the craters. “I don’t know. But I think we’re going to need a lot more reeds.”

  That night, Kaladin, Teft, and Rock walked the makeshift streets of Sadeas’s warcamp. Nomon—the middle moon—shone with his pale, blue-white light. Oil lanterns hung in front of buildings, indicating taverns or brothels. Spheres could provide more consistent, renewable light, but you could buy a bundle of candles or a pouch of oil for a single sphere. In the short run, it was often cheaper to do that, particularly if you were hanging your lights in a place they could be stolen.

  Sadeas didn’t enforce a curfew, but Kaladin had learned that a lone bridgeman had best remain in the lumberyard at night. Half-drunken soldiers in stained uniforms sauntered past, whispering in the ears of whores or boasting to their friends. They called insults at the bridgemen, laughing riotously. The streets felt dark, even with the lanterns and the moonlight, and the haphazard nature of the camp—some stone structures, some wooden shanties, some tents—made it feel disorganized and dangerous.

  Kaladin and his two companions stepped aside for a large group of soldiers. Their coats were unbuttoned, and they were only mildly drunk. A soldier eyed the bridgemen, but the three of them together—one of them being a brawny Horneater—were enough to dissuade the soldier from doing more than laughing and shoving Kaladin as he passed.

  The man smelled of sweat and cheap ale. Kaladin kept his temper. Fight back, and he’d be docked pay for brawling.

  “I don’t like this,” Teft said, glancing over his shoulder at the group of soldiers. “I’m going back to the camp.”

  “You will be staying,” Rock growled.

  Teft rolled his eyes. “You think I’m scared of a lumbering chull like you? I’ll go if I want to, and—”

  “Teft,” Kaladin said softly. “We need you.”

  Need. That word had strange effects on men. Some ran when you used it. Others grew nervous. Teft seemed to long for it. He nodded, muttering to himself, but stayed with them as they went on.

  They soon reached the wagonyard. The fenced-off square of rock was near the western side of the camp. It was deserted for the night, the wagons sitting in long lines. Chulls lay slumbering in the nearby pen, looking like small hills. Kaladin crept forward, wary of sentries, but apparently nobody worried about something as large as a wagon being stolen from the middle of the army.

  Rock nudged him, then pointed to the shadowy chull pens. A lone boy sat upon a pen post, staring up at the moon. Chulls were valuable enough to watch over. Poor lad. How often was he required to wait up nights guarding the sluggish beasts?

  Kaladin crouched down beside a wagon, the other two mimicking him. He pointed down one row, and Rock moved off. Kaladin pointed the other direction, and Teft rolled his eyes, but did as asked.

  Kaladin sneaked down the middle row. There were about thirty wagons, ten per row, but checking was quick. A brush of the fingers against the back plank, looking for the mark he’d made there. After just a few minutes, a shadowed figure entered Kaladin’s row. Rock. The Horneater gestured to the side and held up five fingers. Fifth wagon from the top. Kaladin nodded and moved off.

  Just as he reached the indicated wagon, he heard a soft yelp from the direction Teft had gone. Kaladin flinched, then peeked up toward the sentry. The boy was still watching the moon, kicking his toes absently against the post next to him.

  A moment later, Rock and a sheepish Teft scurried up to Kaladin. “Sorry,” Teft whispered. “The walking mountain startled me.”

  “If I am being a mountain,” Rock grumbled, “then why weren’t you hearing me coming? Eh?”

  Kaladin snorted, feeling the back of the indicated wagon, fingers brushing the X mark in the wood. He took a breath, then climbed under the wagon on his back.

  The reeds were still there, tied in twenty bundles, each about as thick as a handspan. “Ishi, Herald of Luck be praised,” he whispered, untying the first bundle.

  “All there, eh?” Teft said, leaning down, scratching at his beard in the moonlight. “Can’t believe we found so many. Must have pulled up every reed on the entire plain.”

  Kaladin handed him the first bundle. Without Syl, they wouldn’t have found a third this many. She had the speed of an insect in flight, and she seemed to have a sense of where to find things. Kaladin untied the next bundle, handing it out. Teft tied it to the other, making a larger bundle.

  As Kaladin worked, a flurry of small white leaves blew under the wagon and formed into Syl’s figure. She slid to a stop beside his head. “No guards anywhere I could see. Just a boy in the chull pens.” Her white-blue translucent figure was nearly invisible in the darkness.

  “I hope these reeds are still good,” Kaladin whispered. “If they dried out too much…”

  “They’ll be fine. You worry like a worrier. I found you some bottles.”

  “You did?” he asked, so eager that he nearly sat up. He caught himself before smacking his head.

  Syl nodded. “I’ll show you. I couldn’t carry them. Too solid.”

  Kaladin quickly untied the rest of the bundles, handing them out to the nervous Teft. Kaladin scooted out, then took two of the larger, tied-together bundles of three. Teft took two of the others, and Rock managed three by tucking one under his arm. They’d need a place to work where they wouldn’t be interrupted. Even if the knobweed seemed worthless, Gaz would find a way to ruin the work if he saw what was happening.

  Bottle first, Kaladin thought. He nodded to Syl, who led them out of the wagonyard and to a tavern. It looked to have been hastily built from second-rate lumber, but that didn’t stop the soldiers inside from enjoying themselves. Their rowdiness made Kaladin worry about the entire building collapsing.

  Behind it, in a splintery hal
f-crate, lay a pile of discarded liquor bottles. Glass was precious enough that whole bottles would be reused, but these had cracks or broken tops. Kaladin set down his bundles, then selected three nearly whole bottles. He washed them in a nearby water barrel before tucking them into a sack he’d brought for the purpose.

  He picked up his bundles again, nodding to the others. “Try to look like you’re doing something monotonous,” he said. “Bow your heads.” The other two nodded, and they walked out into a main road, carrying the bundles as if on some work detail. They drew far less attention than they had before.

  They avoided the lumberyard proper, crossing the open field of rock used as the army’s staging area before walking down the slope of rock leading to the Shattered Plains. A sentry saw them, and Kaladin held his breath, but he said nothing. He probably assumed from their postures that they had a reason to be doing what they were. If they tried to leave the warcamp, it would be a different story, but this section down near the first few chasms wasn’t off limits.

  Before long, they approached the place where Kaladin had nearly killed himself. What a difference a few days could make. He felt like a different person—a strange hybrid of the man he had once been, the slave he’d become, and the pitiful wretch he still had to fight off. He remembered standing on the edge of the chasm, looking down. That darkness still terrified him.

  If I fail to save the bridgemen, that wretch will take control again. This time he’ll get his way…. That gave Kaladin a shiver. He set his bundles down beside the chasm ledge, then sat. The other two followed more hesitantly.

  “We’re going to toss them into the chasm?” Teft asked, scratching his beard. “After all that work?”

  “Of course not,” Kaladin said. He hesitated; Nomon was bright, but it was still night. “You don’t have any spheres, do you?”

  “Why?” Teft asked, suspicious.

  “For light, Teft.”

  Teft grumbled, pulling out a handful of garnet chips. “Was going to spend these tonight….” he said. They glowed in his palm.

  “All right,” Kaladin said, slipping out a reed. What had his father said about these? Hesitantly, Kaladin broke off the furry top of the reed, exposing the hollow center. He took the reed by the other end and ran his fingers down its length, squeezing it tight. Two drops of milky white liquid dripped into the empty liquor bottle.