The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  There was nothing Kaladin could do for him. So instead, Kaladin made his way to where the members of Bridge Eight lay, exhausted, on a patch of open stone. Kaladin remembered lying like that after his first bridge runs. Now he barely felt winded.

  As usual, the other bridge crews had left their wounded behind as they retreated. One poor man from Eight was crawling toward the others, an arrow through his thigh. Kaladin walked up to him. He had dark brown skin and brown eyes, his thick black hair pulled back into a long, braided tail. Painspren crawled around him. He looked up with as Kaladin and the members of Bridge Four loomed over him.

  “Hold still,” Kaladin said softly, kneeling and gently turning the man to get a good look at the wounded thigh. Kaladin prodded at it, thoughtful. “Teft, we’ll need a fire. Get out your tinder. Rock, you still have my needle and thread? I’ll need that. Where’s Lopen with the water?”

  The members of Bridge Four were silent. Kaladin looked up from the confused, wounded man.

  “Kaladin,” Rock said. “You know how the other bridge crews have treated us.”

  “I don’t care,” Kaladin said.

  “We don’t have any money left,” Drehy said. “Even pooling our income, we barely have enough for bandages for our own men.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “If we care for the wounded of other bridge crews,” Drehy said, shaking a blond head, “we’ll have to feed them, tend them….”

  “I will find a way,” Kaladin said.

  “I—” Rock began.

  “Storm you!” Kaladin said, standing and sweeping his hand over the plateau. The bodies of bridgemen lay scattered, ignored. “Look at that! Who cares for them? Not Sadeas. Not their fellow bridgemen. I doubt even the Heralds themselves spare a thought for these.

  “I won’t stand there and watch while men die behind me. We have to be better than that! We can’t look away like the lighteyes, pretending we don’t see. This man is one of us. Just like Dunny was.

  “The lighteyes talk about honor. They spout empty claims about their nobility. Well, I’ve only known one man in my life who was a true man of honor. He was a surgeon who would help anyone, even those who hated him. Especially those who hated him. Well, we’re going to show Gaz, and Sadeas, Hashal, and any other sodden fool who cares to watch, what he taught me. Now go to work and stop complaining!”

  Bridge Four stared at him with wide, ashamed eyes, then burst into motion. Teft organized a triage unit, sending some men to search for other wounded bridgemen and others to gather rockbud bark for a fire. Lopen and Dabbid rushed off to fetch their litter.

  Kaladin knelt down and felt at the wounded man’s leg, checking to see how quickly the blood leaked, and determined that he wouldn’t need to cauterize. He broke the shaft and wiped the wound with some conicshell mucus for numbing. Then he pulled the wood free, eliciting a grunt, and used his personal set of bandages to wrap the wound.

  “Hold this with your hands,” Kaladin instructed. “And don’t walk on it. I’ll check on you before we march back to camp.”

  “How…” the man said. He didn’t have even a hint of an accent. Kaladin had expected him to be Azish because of the dark skin. “How will I get back if I can’t walk on the leg?”

  “We will carry you,” Kaladin said.

  The man looked up, obviously shocked. “I…” Tears formed in his eyes. “Thank you.”

  Kaladin nodded curtly, turning as Rock and Moash brought over another wounded man. Teft had a fire growing; it smelled of pungent wet rockbud. The new man had hit his head and had a long gash in his arm. Kaladin held out a hand for his thread.

  “Kaladin, lad,” Teft said with a soft voice, handing him the thread and kneeling. “Now, don’t mark this as complaining, because it ain’t. But how many men can we really carry back with us?”

  “We’ve done three before,” Kaladin said. “Lashed to the top of the bridge. I’ll bet we could fit three more and carry another in the water litter.”

  “And if we have more than seven?”

  “If we bandage them right, some might be able to walk.”

  “And if there are still more?”

  “Storm it, Teft,” Kaladin said, beginning to sew. “Then we bring the ones we can and haul the bridge back out again to fetch those we left behind. We’ll bring Gaz with us if the soldiers worry that we’ll run away.”

  Teft was silent, and Kaladin steeled himself for incredulity. Instead, however, the grizzled soldier smiled. He actually seemed a little watery-eyed. “Kelek’s breath. It’s true. I never thought…”

  Kaladin frowned, looking up at Teft and holding a hand to the wound to stanch the bleeding. “What was that?”

  “Oh, nothing.” He scowled. “Get back to work! That lad needs you.”

  Kaladin turned back to his sewing.

  “You still carrying a full pouch of spheres with you, like I told you?” Teft asked.

  “I can’t very well leave them behind in the barracks. But we’ll need to spend them soon.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Teft said. “Those spheres are luck, you hear me? Keep them with you and always keep them infused.”

  Kaladin sighed. “I think there’s something wrong with this batch. They won’t hold their Stormlight. They fall dun after just a few days, every time. Perhaps it’s something to do with the Shattered Plains. It has happened to the other bridgemen too.”

  “Odd, that,” Teft said, rubbing his chin. “This was a bad approach. Three bridges down. Lots of bridgemen dead. Interesting how we didn’t lose anyone.”

  “We lost Dunny.”

  “But not on the approach. You always run point, and the arrows always seem to miss us. Odd, eh?”

  Kaladin looked up again, frowning. “What are you saying, Teft?”

  “Nothing. Get back to that sewing! How many times do I have to tell you?”

  Kaladin raised an eyebrow, but turned back to his work. Teft had been acting very strange lately. Was it the stress? A lot of people were superstitious about spheres and Stormlight.

  Rock and his team brought three more wounded, then said that was all they’d found. Bridgemen who fell often ended up like Dunny, getting trampled. Well, at least Bridge Four wouldn’t have to make a return trip to the plateau.

  The three had bad arrow wounds, and so Kaladin left the man with the gash on his arm to them, instructing Skar to keep pressure on the unfinished sewing job. Teft heated a dagger for cauterization; these newcomers had obviously lost a lot of blood. One probably wouldn’t make it.

  So much of the world is at war, he thought as he worked. The dream had highlighted what others already spoke of. Kaladin hadn’t known, growing up in remote Hearthstone, how fortunate his town had been to avoid battle.

  The entire world warred, and he struggled to save a few impoverished bridgemen. What good did it do? And yet he continued searing flesh, sewing, saving lives as his father had taught him. He began to understand the sense of futility he’d seen in his father’s eyes on those occasional darkened nights when Lirin had turned to his wine in solitude.

  You’re trying to make up for failing Dunny, Kaladin thought. Helping these others won’t bring him back.

  He lost the one he’d suspected would die, but saved the other four, and the one who’d taken a knock to the head was beginning to wake up. Kaladin sat back on his knees, weary, hands covered in blood. He washed them off with a stream of water from Lopen’s waterskins, then reached up, finally remembering his own wound, where the arrow had sliced his cheek.

  He froze. He prodded at his skin, but couldn’t find the wound. He had felt blood on his cheek and chin. He’d felt the arrow slice him, hadn’t he?

  He stood up, feeling a chill, and raised his hand to his forehead. What was happening?

  Someone stepped up beside him. Moash’s now-clean-shaven face exposed a faded scar along his chin. He studied Kaladin. “About Dunny…”

  “You were right to do what you did,” Kaladin said. “You
probably saved my life. Thank you.”

  Moash nodded slowly. He turned to look at the four wounded men; Lopen and Dabbid were giving them drinks of water, asking their names “I was wrong about you,” Moash said suddenly, holding out a hand to Kaladin.

  Kaladin took the hand, hesitant. “Thank you.”

  “You’re a fool and an instigator. But you’re an honest one.” Moash chuckled to himself. “If you get us killed, it won’t be on purpose. Can’t say that for some I’ve served under. Anyway, let’s get these men ready for moving.”

  “The burdens of nine become mine. Why must I carry the madness of them all? Oh, Almighty, release me.”

  —Dated Palaheses, 1173, unknown seconds pre-death. Subject: a wealthy lighteyes. Sample collected secondhand.

  The cold night air threatened that a stretch of winter might soon be coming. Dalinar wore a long, thick uniform coat over trousers and shirt. It buttoned stiffly up the chest and to the collar, and was long in the back and on the sides, coming down to his ankles, flowing at the waist like a cloak. In earlier years, it might have been worn with a takama, though Dalinar had never liked the skirtlike garments.

  The purpose of the uniform was not fashion or tradition, but to distinguish him easily for those who followed him. He wouldn’t have nearly the problem with the other lighteyes if they would at least wear their colors.

  He stepped onto the king’s feasting island. Stands had been set up at the sides where the braziers normally stood, each one bearing one of those new fabrials that gave off heat. The stream between the islands had slowed to a trickle; ice had stopped melting in the highlands.

  Attendance at the feast tonight was small, though that was mostly manifest on the four islands that were not the king’s. Where there was access to Elhokar and the highprinces, people would attend even if the feast were held in the middle of a highstorm. Dalinar walked down the central pathway, and Navani—sitting at a women’s dining table—caught his eyes. She turned away, perhaps still remembering his abrupt words to her at their last meeting.

  Wit wasn’t at his customary place insulting those who walked onto the king’s island; in fact, he wasn’t to be seen at all. Not surprising, Dalinar thought. Wit didn’t like to grow predictable; he’d spent several recent feasts on his pedestal doling out insults. Likely he felt he’d played out that tactic.

  All nine other highprinces were in attendance. Their treatment of Dalinar had grown stiff and cold since refusing his requests to fight together. As if they were offended by the mere offer. Lesser lighteyes made alliances, but the highprinces were like kings themselves. Other highprinces were rivals, to be kept at arm’s length.

  Dalinar sent a servant to fetch him food and sat down at the table. His arrival had been delayed while he took reports from the companies he’d called back, so he was one of the last to eat. Most of the others had turned to mingling. To the right, an officer’s daughter was playing a serene flute melody to a group of onlookers. To the left, three women had set up sketchpads and were each drawing the same man. Women were known to challenge each other to duels in the way of men with Shardblades, though they rarely used the word. These were always “friendly competitions” or “games of talent.”

  His food arrived, steamed stagm—a brownish tuber that grew in deep puddles—atop a bed of boiled tallew. The grain was puffed with water, and the entire meal was drenched in a thick, peppery, brown gravy. He slid out his knife and sliced a disk off the end of the stagm. Using his knife to spread tallew over the top, he grasped the vegetable disk between two fingers and began eat. It had been prepared both spicy and hot this night, probably because of the chill, and tasted good as he chewed, the steam from his plate fogging the air in front of him.

  So far, Jasnah had not replied regarding his vision, though Navani claimed she might be able to find something on her own. She was a renowned scholar herself, though her interests had always been more in fabrials. He glanced at her. Was he a fool to offend her as he had? Would it make her use the knowledge of his visions against him?

  No, he thought. She wouldn’t be that petty. Navani did seem to care for him, though her affection was inappropriate.

  The chairs around him were left empty. He was becoming a pariah, first because of his talk of the Codes, then because of his attempts to get the highprinces to work with him, and finally because of Sadeas’s investigation. No wonder Adolin was worried.

  Suddenly, someone slid right into the seat beside Dalinar, wearing a black cloak against the chill. It wasn’t one of the highprinces. Who would dare—

  The figure lowered his hood, revealing Wit’s hawklike face. All lines and peaks, with a sharp nose and jaw, delicate eyebrows, and keen eyes. Dalinar sighed, waiting for the inevitable stream of too-clever quips.

  Wit, however, didn’t speak. He inspected the crowd, his expression intense.

  Yes, Dalinar thought. Adolin is right about this one too. Dalinar himself had judged the man too harshly in the past. He was not the fool some of his predecessors had been. Wit continued in silence, and Dalinar decided that—perhaps—the man’s prank this night was to sit down beside people and unnerve them. It wasn’t much of a prank, but Dalinar often missed the point of what Wit did. Perhaps it was terribly clever if one had the mind for it. Dalinar returned to his meal.

  “Winds are changing,” Wit whispered.

  Dalinar glanced at him.

  Wit’s eyes narrowed, and he scanned the night sky. “It’s been happening for months now. A whirlwind. Shifting and churning, blowing us round and around. Like a world spinning, but we can’t see it because we’re too much a part of it.”

  “World spinning. What foolishness is this?”

  “The foolishness of men who care, Dalinar,” Wit said. “And the brilliance of those who do not. The second depend on the first—but also exploit the first—while the first misunderstand the second, hoping that the second are more like the first. And all of their games steal our time. Second by second.”

  “Wit,” Dalinar said with a sigh. “I haven’t the mind for this tonight. I’m sorry if I’m missing your intent, but I have no idea what you mean.”

  “I know,” Wit said, then looked directly at him. “Adonalsium.”

  Dalinar frowned more deeply. “What?”

  Wit searched his face. “Have you ever heard the term, Dalinar?”

  “Ado…what?”

  “Nothing,” Wit said. He seemed preoccupied, unlike his usual self. “Nonsense. Balderdash. Figgldygrak. Isn’t it odd that gibberish words are often the sounds of other words, cut up and dismembered, then stitched into something like them—yet wholly unlike them at the same time?”

  Dalinar frowned.

  “I wonder if you could do that to a man. Pull him apart, emotion by emotion, bit by bit, bloody chunk by bloody chunk. Then combine them back together into something else, like a Dysian Aimian. If you do put a man together like that, Dalinar, be sure to name him Gibberish, after me. Or perhaps Gibletish.”

  “Is that your name, then? Your real name?”

  “No, my friend,” Wit said, standing up. “I’ve abandoned my real name. But when next we meet, I’ll think of a clever one for you to call me. Until then, Wit will suffice—or if you must, you may call me Hoid. Watch yourself; Sadeas is planning a revelation at the feast tonight, though I know not what it is. Farewell. I’m sorry I didn’t insult you more.”

  “Wait, you’re leaving?”

  “I must. I hope to return. I’ll do so if I’m not killed. Probably will anyway. Apologize to your nephew for me.”

  “He won’t be happy,” Dalinar said. “He’s fond of you.”

  “Yes, it’s one of his more admirable traits,” Wit said. “Alongside that of paying me, letting me eat his expensive food, and giving me opportunity to make sport of his friends. The cosmere, unfortunately, takes precedence over free food. Watch yourself, Dalinar. Life becomes dangerous, and you’re at the center of it.”

  Wit nodded once, then ducked into the ni
ght. He put his hood up, and soon Dalinar couldn’t separate him from the darkness.

  Dalinar turned back to his meal. Sadeas is planning a revelation at the feast tonight, though I know not what it is. Wit was rarely wrong—though he was almost always odd. Was he really leaving, or would he still be in camp the next morning, laughing at the prank he had played on Dalinar?

  No, Dalinar thought. That wasn’t a prank. He waved over a master-servant in black and white. “Fetch my elder son for me.”

  The servant bowed and withdrew. Dalinar ate the rest of his food in silence, glancing occasionally at Sadeas and Elhokar. They weren’t at the dining table any longer, and so Sadeas’s wife had joined them. Ialai was a curvaceous woman who reportedly dyed her hair. That indicated foreign blood in her family’s past—Alethi hair always bred true, proportionate to how much Alethi blood you had. Foreign blood would mean stray hairs of another color. Ironically, mixed blood was far more common in lighteyes than darkeyes. Darkeyes rarely married foreigners, but the Alethi houses often needed alliances or money from outside.

  Food finished, Dalinar stepped down from the king’s table onto the island proper. The woman was still playing her melancholy song. She was quite good. A few moments later, Adolin strode onto the king’s island. He hurried over to Dalinar. “Father? You sent for me?”

  “Stay close. Wit told me that Sadeas plans to make a storm of something tonight.”

  Adolin’s expression darkened. “Time to go, then.”

  “No. We need to let this play out.”

  “Father—”

  “But you may prepare,” Dalinar said softly. “Just in case. You invited officers of our guard to the feast tonight?”

  “Yes,” Adolin said. “Six of them.”

  “They have my further invitation to the king’s island. Pass the word. What of the King’s Guard?”

  “I’ve made sure that some of the ones guarding the island tonight are among those most loyal to you.” Adolin nodded toward a space in the darkness to the side of the feasting basin. “I think we should position them over there. It’ll make a good line of retreat in case the king tries to have you arrested.”