The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  “I…” Shallan trailed off, noticing how Jasnah’s hand rested fondly on the book. It was precious to her. “I hadn’t thought to find ardents who were willing to question their own beliefs.”

  Jasnah raised an eyebrow. “You will find wise men in any religion, Shallan, and good men in every nation. Those who truly seek wisdom are those who will acknowledge the virtue in their adversaries and who will learn from those who disabuse them of error. All others—heretic, Vorin, Ysperist, or Maakian—are equally closed-minded.” She took her hand from the book, moving as if to stand up.

  “He’s wrong,” Shallan said suddenly, realizing something.

  Jasnah turned to her.

  “Kabsal,” Shallan said, blushing. “He says you’re researching the Voidbringers because you want to prove that Vorinism is false.”

  Jasnah sniffed in derision. “I would not dedicate four years of my life to such an empty pursuit. It’s idiocy to try to prove a negative. Let the Vorin believe as they wish—the wise among them will find goodness and solace in their faith; the fools would be fools no matter what they believed.”

  Shallan frowned. So why was Jasnah studying the Voidbringers?

  “Ah. Speak of the storm and it begins to bluster,” Jasnah said, turning toward the room’s entrance.

  With a start, Shallan realized that Kabsal had just arrived, wearing his usual grey robes. He was arguing softly with a nurse, who pointed at the basket he carried. Finally, the nurse threw up her hands and walked away, leaving Kabsal to approach, triumphant. “Finally!” he said to Shallan. “Old Mungam can be a real tyrant.”

  “Mungam?” Shallan asked.

  “The ardent who runs this place,” Kabsal said. “I should have been allowed in immediately. After all, I know what you need to make you better!” He pulled out a jar of jam, smiling broadly.

  Jasnah remained on her stool, regarding Kabsal across the bed. “I would have thought,” she said dryly, “that you would allow Shallan a respite, considering how your attentions drove her to despair.”

  Kabsal flushed. He looked at Shallan, and she could see the pleading in his eyes.

  “It wasn’t you, Kabsal,” Shallan said. “I just…I wasn’t ready for life away from my family estate. I still don’t know what came over me. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  He smiled, pulling a stool over for himself. “I think,” he said, “that the lack of color in these places is what keeps people sick so long. That and the lack of proper food.” He winked, turning the jar toward Shallan. It was deep, dark red. “Strawberry.”

  “Never heard of it,” Shallan said.

  “It’s exceedingly rare,” Jasnah said, reaching for the jar. “Like most plants from Shinovar, it can’t grow other places.”

  Kabsal looked surprised as Jasnah removed the lid and dipped a finger into the jar. She hesitated, then raised a bit of the jam to her nose to sniff at it.

  “I was under the impression that you disliked jam, Brightness Jasnah,” Kabsal said.

  “I do,” she said. “I was simply curious about the scent. I’ve heard that strawberries are very distinctive.” She screwed the lid back on, then wiped her finger on her cloth handkerchief.

  “I brought bread as well,” Kabsal said. He pulled out a small loaf of the fluffy bread. “It’s nice of you not to blame me, Shallan, but I can see that my attentions were too forward. I thought, maybe, I could bring this and…”

  “And what?” Jasnah asked. “Absolve yourself? ‘I’m sorry I drove you to suicide. Here’s some bread.’”

  He blushed, looking down.

  “Of course I’ll have some,” Shallan said, glaring at Jasnah. “And she will too. It was very kind of you, Kabsal.” She took the bread, breaking off a chunk for Kabsal, one for herself, then one for Jasnah.

  “No,” Jasnah said. “Thank you.”

  “Jasnah,” Shallan said. “Would you please at least try some?” It bothered her that the two of them got on so poorly.

  The older woman sighed. “Oh, very well.” She took the bread, holding it as Shallan and Kabsal ate. The bread was moist and delicious, though Jasnah grimaced as she put hers in her mouth and chewed it.

  “You should really try the jam,” Kabsal said to Shallan. “Strawberry is hard to find. I had to make quite a number of inquiries.”

  “No doubt bribing merchants with the king’s money,” Jasnah noted.

  Kabsal sighed. “Brightness Jasnah, I realize that you are not fond of me. But I’m working very hard to be pleasant. Could you at least pretend to do likewise?”

  Jasnah eyed Shallan, probably recalling Kabsal’s guess that undermining Vorinism was the goal of her research. She didn’t apologize, but also made no retort.

  Good enough, Shallan thought.

  “The jam, Shallan,” Kabsal said, handing her a slice of bread for it.

  “Oh, right.” She removed the lid of the jar, holding it between her knees and using her freehand.

  “You missed your ship out, I assume,” Kabsal said.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s this?” Jasnah asked.

  Shallan cringed. “I was planning to leave, Brightness. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

  Jasnah settled back. “I suppose it was to be expected, all things considered.”

  “The jam?” Kabsal prodded again.

  Shallan frowned. He was particularly insistent about that jam. She raised the jar and sniffed at it, then pulled back. “It smells terrible! This is jam?” It smelled like vinegar and slime.

  “What?” Kabsal said, alarmed. He took the jar, sniffing at it, then pulled away, looking nauseated.

  “It appears you got a bad jar,” Jasnah said. “That’s not how it’s supposed to smell?”

  “Not at all,” Kabsal said. He hesitated, then stuck his finger into the jam anyway, shoving a large glob into his mouth.

  “Kabsal!” Shallan said. “That’s revolting!”

  He coughed, but forced it down. “Not so bad, really. You should try it.”

  “What?”

  “Really,” he said, forcing it toward her. “I mean, I wanted this to be special, for you. And it turned out so horribly.”

  “I’m not tasting that, Kabsal.”

  He hesitated, as if considering forcing it upon her. Why was he acting so strangely? He raised a hand to his head, stood up, and stumbled away from the bed.

  Then he began to rush from the room. He made it only halfway before crashing to the floor, his body sliding a little way across the spotless stone.

  “Kabsal!” Shallan said, leaping out of the bed, hurrying to his side, wearing only the white robe. He was shaking. And…and…

  And so was she. The room was spinning. Suddenly she felt very, very tired. She tried to stand, but slipped, dizzy. She barely felt herself hit the floor.

  Someone was kneeling above her, cursing.

  Jasnah. Her voice was distant. “She’s been poisoned. I need a garnet. Bring me a garnet!”

  There’s one in my pouch, Shallan thought. She fumbled with it, managing to undo the tie of her safehand’s sleeve. Why…why does she want…

  But no, I can’t show her that. The Soulcaster!

  Her mind was so fuzzy.

  “Shallan,” Jasnah’s voice said, anxious, very soft. “I’m going to have to Soulcast your blood to purify it. It will be dangerous. Extremely dangerous. I’m not good with flesh or blood. It’s not where my talent lies.”

  She needs it. To save me. Weakly, she reached in and pulled out her safepouch with her right hand. “You…can’t…”

  “Hush, child. Where is that garnet!”

  “You can’t Soulcast,” Shallan said weakly, pulling the ties of her pouch open. She upended it, vaguely seeing a fuzzy golden object slip out onto the floor, alongside the garnet that Kabsal had given her.

  Stormfather! Why was the room spinning so much?

  Jasnah gasped. Distantly.

  Fading…

  Something happened. A flas
h of warmth burned through Shallan, something inside her skin, as if she had been dumped into a steaming hot cauldron. She screamed, arching her back, her muscles spasming.

  All went black.

  “Radiant / of birthplace / the announcer comes / to come announce / the birthplace of Radiants.”

  —Though I am not overly fond of the ketek poetic form as a means of conveying information, this one by Allahn is often quoted in reference to Urithiru. I believe some mistook the home of the Radiants for their birthplace.

  The towering walls of the chasm rising on either side of Kaladin dripped with greenish grey moss. His torch’s flames danced, light reflecting on slick, rain-wetted sections of stone. The humid air was chilly, and the highstorm had left puddles and ponds. Spindly bones—an ulna and a radius—poked from a deep puddle Kaladin passed. He didn’t look to see if the rest of the skeleton was there.

  Flash floods, Kaladin thought, listening to the scraping steps of the bridgemen behind him. That water has to go somewhere, otherwise we’d have canals to cross instead of chasms.

  Kaladin didn’t know if he could trust his dream or not, but he’d asked around, and it was true that the eastern edge of the Shattered Plains was more open than the western side. The plateaus had been worn away. If the bridgemen could get there, they might be able to flee to the east.

  Might. Many chasmfiends lived in that area, and Alethi scouts patrolled the perimeter beyond. If Kaladin’s team met them, they would have trouble explaining what a group of armed men—many with slave brands—was doing there.

  Syl walked along the wall of the chasm, about level with Kaladin’s head. Groundspren didn’t pull her downward as they did everything else. She walked with her hands clasped behind her back, her tiny, knee-length skirt fluttering in an intangible wind.

  Escape to the east. It seemed unlikely. The highprinces had tried very hard to explore that way, looking for a route to the center of the Plains. They’d failed. Chasmfiends had killed some groups. Others had been caught in the chasms during highstorms, despite precautions. It was impossible to predict the storms perfectly.

  Other scouting parties had avoided those two fates. They’d used enormous extensible ladders to climb atop plateaus during highstorms. They’d lost many men, though, as the plateau tops provided poor cover during storms, and you couldn’t bring wagons or other shelter with you into the chasms. The bigger problem, he’d heard, had been the Parshendi patrols. They’d found and killed dozens of scouting parties.

  “Kaladin?” Teft asked, hustling up, splashing through a puddle where bits of empty cremling carapace floated. “You all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “You look thoughtful.”

  “More breakfast-full,” Kaladin said. “That gruel was particularly dense this morning.”

  Teft smiled. “I never took you for the glib type.”

  “I used to be more so. I get it from my mother. You could rarely say anything to her without getting it twisted about and tossed back to you.”

  Teft nodded. They walked in silence for a time, the bridgemen behind laughing as Dunny told a story about the first girl he’d ever kissed.

  “Son,” Teft said, “have you felt anything strange lately?”

  “Strange? What kind of strange?”

  “I don’t know. Just…anything odd?” He coughed. “You know, like odd surges of strength? The…er, feeling that you’re light?”

  “The feeling that I’m what?”

  “Light. Er, maybe, like your head is light. Light-headed. That sort of thing. Storm it, boy, I’m just checking to see if you’re still sick. You were beat up pretty badly by that highstorm.”

  “I’m fine,” Kaladin said. “Remarkably so, actually.”

  “Odd, eh?”

  It was odd. It fed his nagging worry that he was subject to some kind of supernatural curse of the type that were supposed to happen to people who sought the Old Magic. There were stories of evil men made immortal, then tortured over and over again—like Extes, who had his arms torn off each day for sacrificing his son to the Voidbringers in exchange for knowledge of the day of his death. It was just a tale, but tales came from somewhere.

  Kaladin lived when everyone else died. Was that the work of some spren from Damnation, toying with him like a windspren, but infinitely more nefarious? Letting him think that he might be able to do some good, then killing everyone he tried to help? There were supposed to be thousands of kinds of spren, many that people never saw or didn’t know about. Syl followed him. Could some kind of evil spren be doing the same?

  A very disturbing thought.

  Superstition is useless, he told himself forcefully. Think on it too much, and you’ll end up like Durk, insisting that you need to wear your lucky boots into every battle.

  They reached a section where the chasm forked, splitting around a plateau high above. Kaladin turned to face the bridgemen. “This is as good a place as any.” The bridgemen stopped, bunching up. He could see the anticipation in their eyes, the excitement.

  He’d felt that once, back before he’d known the soreness and the pain of practice. Oddly, Kaladin felt he was now both more in awe of and more disappointed in the spear than he’d been as a youth. He loved the focus, the feeling of certainty that he felt when he fought. But that hadn’t saved those who followed him.

  “This is where I’m supposed to tell you what a sorry group you are,” Kaladin said to the men. “It’s the way I’ve always seen it done. The training sergeant tells the recruits that they are pathetic. He points out their weakness, perhaps spars with a few of them, tossing them on their backsides to teach them humility. I did that a few times myself when training new spearmen.”

  Kaladin shook his head. “Today, that’s not how we’ll begin. You men don’t need humbling. You don’t dream of glory. You dream of survival. Most of all, you aren’t the sad, unprepared group of recruits most sergeants have to deal with. You’re tough. I’ve seen you run for miles carrying a bridge. You’re brave. I’ve seen you charge straight at a line of archers. You’re determined. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, right now, with me.”

  Kaladin walked to the side of the chasm and extracted a discarded spear from some flood-strewn rubble. Once he had it, however, he realized that the spearhead had been knocked off. He almost tossed it aside, then reconsidered.

  Spears were dangerous for him to hold. They made him want to fight, and might lead him to think he was who he’d once been: Kaladin Stormblessed, confident squadleader. He wasn’t that man any longer.

  It seemed that whenever he picked up weapons, the people around him died—friends as well as foes. So, for now, it seemed good to hold this length of wood; it was just a staff. Nothing more. A stick he could use for training.

  He could face returning to the spear another time.

  “It’s good that you’re already prepared,” Kaladin said to the men. “Because we don’t have the six weeks I was given to train a new batch of recruits. In six weeks, Sadeas will have half of us dead. I intend to see you all drinking mudbeer in a tavern somewhere safe by the time six weeks have passed.”

  Several of them gave a kind of half-cheer at that.

  “We’ll have to be fast,” Kaladin said. “I’ll have to push you hard. That’s our only option.” He glanced at the spear haft. “The first thing you need to learn is that it’s all right to care.”

  The twenty-three bridgemen stood in a double row. All had wanted to come. Even Leyten, who had been hurt so badly. They didn’t have any who were wounded so badly they couldn’t walk, although Dabbid continued to stare off at nothing. Rock stood with his arms folded, apparently with no intention of learning to fight. Shen, the parshman, stood at the very back. He looked at the ground. Kaladin didn’t intend to put a spear in his hands.

  Several of the bridgemen seemed confused by what Kaladin had said about emotions, though Teft just raised an eyebrow and Moash yawned. “What do you mean?” Drehy asked. He was a lanky blond man, long-limbed a
nd muscled. He spoke with a faint accent; he was from somewhere far to the west, called Rianal.

  “A lot of soldiers,” Kaladin said, running his thumb across the pole, feeling the grain of the wood, “they think that you fight the best if you’re passionless and cold. I think that’s stormleavings. Yes, you need to be focused. Yes, emotions are dangerous. But if you don’t care about anything, what are you? An animal, driven only to kill. Our passion is what makes us human. We have to fight for a reason. So I say that it’s all right to care. We’ll talk about controlling your fear and anger, but remember this as the first lesson I taught you.”

  Several of the bridgemen nodded. Most seemed confused still. Kaladin remembered being there, wondering why Tukks wasted time talking about emotions. He’d thought he understood emotion—his drive to learn the spear had come because of his emotions. Vengeance. Hatred. A lust for the power to exact retribution on Varth and the soldiers of his squad.

  He looked up, trying to banish those memories. No, the bridgemen didn’t understand his words about caring, but perhaps they would remember later, as Kaladin had.

  “The second lesson,” Kaladin said, slapping the decapitated spear to the rock beside him with a crack that echoed down the chasm, “is more utilitarian. Before you can learn to fight, you’re going to have to learn how to stand.” He dropped the spear. The bridgemen watched him with frowns of disappointment.

  Kaladin fell into a basic spearman’s stance, feet wide apart—but not too wide—turned sideways, knees bent in a loose crouch. “Skar, I want you to come try to push me backward.”

  “What?”

  “Try and throw me off balance,” Kaladin said. “Force me to stumble.”

  Skar shrugged and walked forward. He tried to shove Kaladin back, but Kaladin easily knocked his hands aside with a quick snap of the wrist. Skar cursed and came at him again, but Kaladin caught his arm and shoved him backward, causing Skar to stumble.

  “Drehy, come help him,” Kaladin said. “Moash, you too. Try to force me off balance.”

  The other two joined Skar. Kaladin stepped around the attacks, staying squarely in the middle of them, adjusting his stance to rebuff each attempt. He grabbed Drehy’s arm and yanked him forward, nearly causing him to fall. He stepped into Skar’s shoulder-rush, deflecting the weight of the man’s body and throwing him backward. He pulled back as Moash got his arms on him, causing Moash to overbalance himself.