Kal crossed the square carefully, wary of patches of ice. The door to the bakery slammed shut behind him, the two women fleeing inside.
His satisfaction didn’t last long. Why did people always say such things about his father? They called him morbid and unnatural, but would scurry out to buy glyphwards and charms from a passing apothecary or luck-merch. The Almighty pity a man who actually did something useful to help!
Still stewing, Kal turned a few corners, walking to where his mother stood on a stepladder at the side of the town hall, carefully chipping at the eaves of the building. Hesina was a tall woman, and she usually kept her hair pulled back into a tail, then wrapped a kerchief around her head. Today, she wore a knit hat over that. She had a long brown coat that matched Kal’s, and the blue hem of her skirt just barely peeked out at the bottom.
The objects of her attention were a set of icicle-like pendants of rock that had formed on the edges of the roof. Highstorms dropped stormwater, and stormwater carried crem. If left alone, crem eventually hardened into stone. Buildings grew stalactites, formed by stormwater slowly dripping from the eaves. You had to clean them off regularly, or risk weighing down the roof so much that it collapsed.
She noticed him and smiled, her cheeks flushed from the cold. With a narrow face, a bold chin, and full lips, she was a pretty woman. At least Kal thought so. Prettier than the baker’s wife, for sure.
“Your father dismissed you from your lessons already?” she asked.
“Everyone hates Father,” Kal blurted out.
His mother turned back to her work. “Kaladin, you’re thirteen. You’re old enough to know not to say foolish things like that.”
“It’s true,” he said stubbornly. “I heard some women talking, just now. They said that Father stole the spheres from Brightlord Wistiow. They say that Father enjoys slicing people open and doing things that ain’t natural.”
“Aren’t natural.”
“Why can’t I speak like everyone else?”
“Because it isn’t proper.”
“It’s proper enough for Nanha Terith.”
“And what do you think of her?”
Kal hesitated. “She’s ignorant. And she likes to gossip about things she doesn’t know anything about.”
“Well, then. If you wish to emulate her, I can obviously find no objection to the practice.”
Kal grimaced. You had to watch yourself when speaking with Hesina; she liked to twist words about. He leaned back against the wall of the town hall, watching his breath puff out in front of him. Perhaps a different tactic would work. “Mother, why do people hate Father?”
“They don’t hate him,” she said. However, his calmly asked question got her to continue. “But he does make them uncomfortable.”
“Why?”
“Because some people are frightened of knowledge. Your father is a learned man; he knows things the others can’t understand. So those things must be dark and mysterious.”
“They aren’t afraid of luckmerches and glyphwards.”
“Those you can understand,” his mother said calmly. “You burn a glyphward out in front of your house, and it will turn away evil. It’s easy. Your father won’t give someone a ward to heal them. He’ll insist that they stay in bed, drinking water, taking some foul medicine, and washing their wound each day. It’s hard. They’d rather leave it all to fate.”
Kal considered that. “I think they hate him because he fails too often.”
“There is that. If a glyphward fails, you can blame it on the will of the Almighty. If your father fails, then it’s his fault. Or such is the perception.” His mother continued working, flakes of stone falling to the ground around her. “They’ll never actually hate your father—he’s too useful. But he’ll never really be one of them. That’s the price of being a surgeon. Having power over the lives of men is an uncomfortable responsibility.”
“And if I don’t want that responsibility? What if I just want to be something normal, like a baker, or a farmer, or…” Or a soldier, he added in his mind. He’d picked up a staff a few times in secret, and though he’d never been able to replicate that moment when he’d fought Jost, there was something invigorating about holding a weapon. Something that drew him and excited him.
“I think,” his mother said, “that you’ll find the lives of bakers and farmers are not so enviable.”
“At least they have friends.”
“And so do you. What of Tien?”
“Tien’s not my friend, Mother. He’s my brother.”
“Oh, and he can’t be both at once?”
Kal rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
She climbed down from the stepladder, patting his shoulder. “Yes, I do, and I’m sorry to make light of it. But you put yourself in a difficult position. You want friends, but do you really want to act like the other boys? Give up your studies so you can slave in the fields? Grow old before your time, weathered and furrowed by the sun?”
Kal didn’t reply.
“The things that others have always seem better than what you have,” his mother said. “Bring the stepladder.”
Kal followed dutifully, rounding the town hall to the other side, then putting down the ladder so his mother could climb up to begin work again.
“The others think Father stole those spheres.” Kal shoved his hands in his pockets. “They think he wrote out that order from Brightlord Wistiow and had the old man sign it when he didn’t know what he was doing.”
His mother was silent.
“I hate their lies and gossip,” Kal said. “I hate them for making up things about us.”
“Don’t hate them, Kal. They’re good people. In this case, they’re just repeating what they’ve heard.” She glanced at the citylord’s manor, distant upon a hill above the town. Every time Kal saw it, he felt like he should go up and talk to Laral. But the last few times he’d tried, he hadn’t been allowed to see her. Now that her father was dead, her nurse oversaw her time, and the woman didn’t think mingling with boys from the town was appropriate.
The nurse’s husband, Miliv, had been Brightlord Wistiow’s head steward. If there was a source of bad rumors about Kal’s family, it probably came from him. He never had liked Kal’s father. Well, Miliv wouldn’t matter soon. A new citylord was expected to arrive any day.
“Mother,” Kal said, “those spheres are just sitting there doing nothing but glowing. Can’t we spend some to keep you from having to come out here and work?”
“I like working,” she said, scraping away again. “It clears the head.”
“Didn’t you just tell me that I wouldn’t like having to labor? My face furrowed before its time, or something poetic like that?”
She hesitated, then laughed. “Clever boy.”
“Cold boy,” he grumbled, shivering.
“I work because I want to. We can’t spend those spheres—they’re for your education—and so my working is better than forcing your father to charge for his healings.”
“Maybe they’d respect us more if we did charge.”
“Oh, they respect us. No, I don’t think that is the problem.” She looked down at Kal. “You know that we’re second nahn.”
“Sure,” Kal said, shrugging.
“An accomplished young surgeon of the right rank could draw the attention of a poorer noble family, one who wished money and acclaim. It happens in the larger cities.”
Kal glanced up at the mansion again. “That’s why you encouraged me to play with Laral so much. You wanted to marry me off to her, didn’t you?”
“It was a possibility,” his mother said, returning to her work.
He honestly wasn’t certain how he felt about that. The last few months had been strange for Kal. His father had forced him into his studies, but in secret he’d spent his time with the staff. Two possible paths. Both enticing. Kal did like learning, and he longed for the ability to help people, bind their wounds, make them better. He saw true nobility in what his father
did.
But it seemed to Kal that if he could fight, he could do something even more noble. Protect their lands, like the great lighteyed heroes of the stories. And there was the way he felt when holding a weapon.
Two paths. Opposites, in many ways. He could only choose one.
His mother kept chipping away at the eaves, and—with a sigh—Kal fetched a second stepladder and set of tools from the workroom, then joined her. He was tall for his age, but he still had to stand high on the ladder. He caught his mother smiling as he worked, no doubt pleased at having raised such a helpful young man. In reality, Kal just wanted the chance to pound on something.
How would he feel, marrying someone like Laral? He’d never be her equal. Their children would have a chance of being lighteyed or darkeyed, so even his children might outrank him. He knew he’d feel terribly out of place. That was another aspect of becoming a surgeon. If he chose that path, he would be choosing the life of his father. Choosing to set himself apart, to be isolated.
If he went to war, however, he would have a place. Maybe he could even do the nearly unthinkable, win a Shardblade and become a true lighteyes. Then he could marry Laral and not have to be her inferior. Was that why she’d always encouraged him to become a soldier? Had she been thinking about these kinds of things, even back then? Back then, these kinds of decisions—marriage, his future—had seemed impossibly far-off to Kal.
He felt so young. Did he really have to consider these questions? It would still be another few years before the surgeons of Kharbranth would let him take their tests. But if he were going to become a soldier instead, he’d have to join the army before that happened. How would his father react if Kal just up and went with the recruiters? Kal wasn’t certain he’d be able to face Lirin’s disappointed eyes.
As if in response to his thoughts, Lirin’s voice called from nearby. “Hesina!”
Kal’s mother turned, smiling and tucking a stray lock of dark hair back into her kerchief. Kal’s father rushed down the street, his face anxious. Kal felt a sudden jolt of worry. Who was wounded? Why hadn’t Lirin sent for him?
“What is it?” Kal’s mother asked, climbing down.
“He’s here, Hesina,” Kal’s father said.
“About time.”
“Who?” Kal asked, jumping down from the stepladder. “Who’s here?”
“The new citylord, son,” Lirin said, his breath puffing in the cold air. “His name is Brightlord Roshone. No time to change, I’m afraid. Not if we want to catch his first speech. Come on!”
The three of them hurried away, Kal’s thoughts and worries banished in the face of the chance to meet a new lighteyes.
“He didn’t send word ahead,” Lirin said under his breath.
“That could be a good sign,” Hesina replied. “Maybe he doesn’t feel he needs everyone to dote on him.”
“That, or he’s inconsiderate. Stormfather, I hate getting a new Landed. Always makes me feel like I’m throwing a handful of stones into a game of breakneck. Will we throw the queen or the tower?”
“We shall see soon enough,” Hesina said, glancing at Kal. “Don’t let your father’s words unnerve you. He always gets pessimistic at times like this.”
“I do not,” Lirin said.
She gave him a look.
“Name one other time.”
“Meeting my parents.”
Kal’s father pulled up short, blinking. “Stormwinds,” he muttered, “let’s hope this doesn’t go half as poorly as that.”
Kal listened with curiosity. He’d never met his mother’s parents; they weren’t often spoken of. Soon, the three of them reached the south side of town. A crowd was gathered, and Tien was already there, waiting. He waved in his excitable way, jumping up and down.
“Wish I had half that boy’s energy,” Lirin said.
“I’ve got a place for us picked out!” Tien called eagerly, pointing. “By the rain barrels! Come on! We’re going to miss it!”
Tien scurried over, climbing atop the barrels. Several of the town’s other boys noticed him, and they nudged one another, one making some comment Kal couldn’t hear. It set the others laughing at Tien, and that immediately made Kal furious. Tien didn’t deserve mockery just because he was a little small for his age.
This wasn’t a good time to confront the other boys, though, so Kal sullenly joined his parents beside the barrels. Tien smiled at him, standing atop his barrel. He’d piled a few of his favorite rocks near him, stones of different colors and shapes. There were rocks all around them, and yet Tien was the only person he knew who found wonder in them. After a moment’s consideration, Kal climbed atop a barrel—careful not to disturb any of Tien’s rocks—so he too could get a better view of the citylord’s procession.
It was enormous. There must have been a dozen wagons in that line, following a fine black carriage pulled by four sleek black horses. Kal gawked despite himself. Wistiow had only owned one horse, and it had seemed as old as he was.
Could one man, even a lighteyes, own that much furniture? Where would he put it all? And there were people too. Dozens of them, riding in the wagons, walking in groups. There were also a dozen soldiers in gleaming breastplates and leather skirts. This lighteyes even had his own honor guard.
Eventually the procession reached the turn-off to Hearthstone. A man riding a horse led the carriage and its soldiers forward to the town while most of the wagons continued up to the manor. Kal grew increasingly excited as the carriage rolled slowly into place. Would he finally get to see a real, lighteyed hero? The word around town claimed it was likely that the new citylord would be someone King Gavilar or Highprince Sadeas had promoted because he’d distinguished himself in the wars to unite Alethkar.
The carriage turned sideways so that the door faced the crowd. The horses snorted and stomped the ground, and the carriage driver hopped down and quickly opened the door. A middle-aged man with a short, grey-streaked beard stepped out. He wore a ruffled violet coat, tailored so that it was short at the front—reaching only to his waist—but long at the back. Beneath it, he wore a golden takama, a long, straight skirt that went down to his calves.
A takama. Few wore them anymore, but old soldiers in town spoke of the days when they’d been popular as warrior’s garb. Kal hadn’t expected the takama to look so much like a woman’s skirt, but still, it was a good sign. Roshone himself seemed a little too old, a little too flabby, to be a true soldier. But he wore a sword.
The lighteyed man scanned the crowd, a distasteful look on his face, as if he’d swallowed something bitter. Behind the man, two people peeked out. A younger man with a narrow face and an older woman with braided hair. Roshone studied the crowd, then shook his head and turned around to climb back in the carriage.
Kal frowned. Wasn’t he going to say anything? The crowd seemed to share Kal’s shock; a few of them began whispering in anxiety.
“Brightlord Roshone!” Kal’s father called.
The crowd hushed. The lighteyed man glanced back. People shied away, and Kal found himself shrinking down beneath that harsh gaze. “Who spoke?” Roshone demanded, his voice a low baritone.
Lirin stepped forward, raising a hand. “Brightlord. Was your trip pleasant? Please, can we show you the town?”
“What is your name?”
“Lirin, Brightlord. Hearthstone’s surgeon.”
“Ah,” Roshone said. “You’re the one who let old Wistiow die.” The brightlord’s expression darkened. “In a way, it’s your fault I’m in this pitiful, miserable quarter of the kingdom.” He grunted, then climbed back in the carriage and slammed the door. Within seconds, the carriage driver had replaced the stairs, climbed into his place, and started turning the vehicle around.
Kal’s father slowly let his arm fall to his side. The townspeople began to chatter immediately, gossiping about the soldiers, the carriage, the horses.
Kal sat down on his barrel. Well, he thought. I guess we could expect a warrior to be curt, right? The heroes from
the legends weren’t necessarily the polite types. Killing people and fancy talking didn’t always go together, old Jarel had once told him.
Lirin walked back, his expression troubled.
“Well?” Hesina said, trying to sound cheerful. “What do you think? Did we throw the queen or the tower?”
“Neither.”
“Oh? And what did we throw instead?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “A pair and a trio, maybe. Let’s get back home.”
Tien scratched his head in confusion, but the words weighed on Kal. The tower was three pairs in a game of breakneck. The queen was two trios. The first was an outright loss, the other an outright win.
But a pair and a trio, that was called the butcher. Whether you won or not would depend on the other throws you made.
And, more importantly, on the throws of everyone else.
I am being chased. Your friends of the Seventeenth Shard, I suspect. I believe they’re still lost, following a false trail I left for them. They’ll be happier that way. I doubt they have any inkling what to do with me should they actually catch me.
“I stood in the darkened monastery chamber,’” Litima read, standing at the lectern with the tome open before her, “‘its far reaches painted with pools of black where light did not wander. I sat on the floor, thinking of that dark, that Unseen. I could not know, for certain, what was hidden in that night. I suspected there were walls, sturdy and thick, but could I know without seeing? When all was hidden, what could a man rely upon as True?’”
Litima—one of Dalinar’s scribes—was tall and plump and wore a violet silk gown with yellow trim. She read to Dalinar as he stood, regarding the maps on the wall of his sitting room. That room was fitted with handsome wood furnishings and fine woven rugs imported up from Marat. A crystal carafe of afternoon wine—orange, not intoxicating—sat on a high-legged serving table in the corner, sparkling with the light of the diamond spheres hanging in chandeliers above.
“‘Candle flames,’” Litima continued. The selection was from The Way of Kings, read from the very copy that Gavilar had once owned. “‘A dozen candles burned themselves to death on the shelf before me. Each of my breaths made them tremble. To them, I was a behemoth, to frighten and destroy. And yet, if I strayed too close, they could destroy me. My invisible breath, the pulses of life that flowed in and out, could end them freely, while my fingers could not do the same without being repaid in pain.’”
The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The) Page 45
