The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  Above him, on the ridge, a few scouts stood watch over the Shattered Plains. This area beneath the ridge belonged to no specific highprince, and the scouts ignored Kaladin. He would only be stopped if he tried to leave the warcamps at the southern or northern sides.

  None of the bridgemen had come after him. He wasn’t certain what Teft had told them. Perhaps he’d said Kaladin was distraught following Maps’s death.

  It felt odd to be alone. Ever since he’d been betrayed by Amaram and made a slave, he had been in the company of others. Slaves with whom he’d plotted. Bridgemen with whom he’d worked. Soldiers to guard him, slavemasters to beat him, friends to depend on him. The last time he’d been alone had been that night when he’d been tied up for the highstorm to kill him.

  No, he thought. I wasn’t alone that night. Syl was there. He lowered his head, passing small cracks in the ground to his left. Those lines eventually grew into chasms as they moved eastward.

  What was happening to him? He wasn’t delusional. Teft and Lopen had seen it too. Teft had actually seemed to expect it.

  Kaladin should have died during that highstorm. And yet, he had been up and walking shortly afterward. His ribs should still be tender, but they hadn’t ached in weeks. His spheres, and those of the other bridgemen near him, had consistently run out of Stormlight.

  Had it been the highstorm that had changed him? But no, he’d discovered drained spheres before being hung out to die. And Syl…she’d as much as admitted responsibility for some of what had happened. This had been going on a long time.

  He stopped beside a rock outcropping, resting against it, causing grass to shrink away. He looked eastward, over the Shattered Plains. His home. His sepulcher. This life on them was ripping him apart. The bridgemen looked up to him, thought him their leader, their savior. But he had cracks in him, like the cracks in the stone here at the edges of the Plains.

  Those cracks were growing larger. He kept making promises to himself, like a man running a long distance with no energy left. Just a little farther. Run just to that next hill. Then you can give up. Tiny fractures, fissures in the stone.

  It’s right that I came here, he thought. We belong together, you and I. I’m like you. What had made the Plains break in the first place? Some kind of great weight?

  A melody began playing distantly, carrying over the Plains. Kaladin jumped at the sound. It was so unexpected, so out of place, that it was startling despite its softness.

  The sounds were coming from the Plains. Hesitant, yet unable to resist, he walked forward. Eastward, onto the flat, windswept rock. The sounds grew louder as he walked, but they were still haunting, elusive. A flute, though one lower in pitch than most he’d heard.

  As he grew closer, Kaladin smelled smoke. A light was burning out there. A tiny campfire.

  Kaladin walked out to the edge of this particular peninsula, a chasm growing from the cracks until it plunged down into darkness. At the very tip of the peninsula—surrounded on three sides by chasm—Kaladin found a man sitting on a boulder, wearing a lighteyes’s black uniform. A small fire of rockbud shell burned in front of him. The man’s hair was short and black, his face angular. He wore a thin, black-sheathed sword at his waist.

  The man’s eyes were a pale blue. Kaladin had never heard of a lighteyed man playing a flute. Didn’t they consider music a feminine pursuit? Lighteyed men sang, but they didn’t play instruments unless they were ardents.

  This man was extremely talented. The odd melody he played was alien, almost unreal, like something from another place and time. It echoed down the chasm and came back; it almost sounded like the man was playing a duet with himself.

  Kaladin stopped a short distance away, realizing that the last thing he wanted to do now was deal with a brightlord, particularly one who was eccentric enough to dress in black and wander out onto the Shattered Plains to practice his flute. Kaladin turned to go.

  The music cut off. Kaladin paused.

  “I always worry that I’ll forget how to play her,” a soft voice said from behind. “It’s silly, I know, considering how long I’ve practiced. But these days I rarely give her the attention she deserves.”

  Kaladin turned toward the stranger. His flute was carved from a dark wood that was almost black. The instrument seemed too ordinary to belong to a lighteyes, yet the man held it reverently.

  “What are you doing here?” Kaladin asked.

  “Sitting. Occasionally playing.”

  “I mean, why are you here?”

  “Why am I here?” the man asked, lowering his flute, leaning back and relaxing. “Why are any of us here? That’s a rather deep question for a first meeting, young bridgeman. I generally prefer introductions before theology. Lunch too, if it can be found. Perhaps a nice nap. Actually, practically anything should come before theology. But especially introductions.”

  “All right,” Kaladin said. “And you are…?”

  “Sitting. Occasionally playing… with the minds of bridgemen.”

  Kaladin reddened, turning again to go. Let the fool lighteyes say, and do, what he wished. Kaladin had difficult decisions to think about.

  “Well, off with you then,” the lighteyes said from behind. “Glad you are going. Wouldn’t want you too close. I’m rather attached to my Stormlight.”

  Kaladin froze. Then he spun. “What?”

  “My spheres,” the strange man said, holding up what appeared to be a fully infused emerald broam. “Everyone knows that bridgemen are thieves, or at least beggars.”

  Of course. He had been talking about spheres. He didn’t know about Kaladin’s… affliction. Did he? The man’s eyes twinkled as if at a grand joke.

  “Don’t be insulted at being called a thief,” the man said, raising a finger. Kaladin frowned. Where had the sphere gone? He had been holding it in that hand. “I meant it as a compliment.”

  “A compliment? Calling someone a thief?”

  “Of course. I myself am a thief.”

  “You are? What do you steal?”

  “Pride,” the man said, leaning forward. “And occasionally boredom, if I may take the pride unto myself. I am the King’s Wit. Or I was until recently. I think I shall probably lose the title soon.”

  “The king’s what?”

  “Wit. It was my job to be witty.”

  “Saying confusing things isn’t the same as being witty.”

  “Ah,” the man said, eyes twinkling. “Already you prove yourself more wise than most who have been my acquaintance lately. What is it to be witty, then?”

  “To say clever things.”

  “And what is cleverness?”

  “I…” Why was he having this conversation? “I guess it’s the ability to say and do the right things at the right time.”

  The King’s Wit cocked his head, then smiled. Finally, he held out his hand to Kaladin. “And what is your name, my thoughtful bridgeman?”

  Kaladin hesitantly raised his own hand. “Kaladin. And yours?”

  “I’ve many.” The man shook Kaladin’s hand. “I began life as a thought, a concept, words on a page. That was another thing I stole. Myself. Another time, I was named for a rock.”

  “A pretty one, I hope.”

  “A beautiful one,” the man said. “And one that became completely worthless for my wearing it.”

  “Well, what do men call you now?”

  “Many a thing, and only some of them polite. Almost all are true, unfortunately. You, however, you may call me Hoid.”

  “Your name?”

  “No. The name of someone I should have loved. Once again, this is a thing I stole. It is something we thieves do.” He glanced eastward, over the rapidly darkening Plains. The little fire burning beside Hoid’s boulder shed a fugitive light, red from glimmering coals.

  “Well, it was pleasant to meet you,” Kaladin said. “I will be on my way….”

  “Not before I give you something.” Hoid picked up his flute. “Wait, please.”

  Kaladin sigh
ed. He had a feeling that this odd man was not going to let him escape until he was done.

  “This is a Trailman’s flute,” Hoid said, inspecting the length of dark wood. “It is meant to be used by a storyteller, for him to play while he is telling a story.”

  “You mean to accompany a storyteller. Being played by someone else while he speaks.”

  “Actually, I meant what I said.”

  “How would a man tell a story while playing the flute?”

  Hoid raised an eyebrow, then lifted the flute to his lips. He played it differently from flutes Kaladin had seen—instead of holding it down in front of him, Hoid held it out to the side and blew across its top. He tested a few notes. They had the same melancholy tone that Kaladin had heard before.

  “This story,” Hoid said, “is about Derethil and the Wandersail.”

  He began to play. The notes were quicker, sharper, than the ones he’d played earlier. They almost seemed to tumble over one another, scurrying out of the flute like children racing one another to be first. They were beautiful and crisp, rising and falling scales, intricate as a woven rug.

  Kaladin found himself transfixed. The tune was powerful, almost demanding. As if each note were a hook, flung out to spear Kaladin’s flesh and hold him near.

  Hoid stopped abruptly, but the notes continued to echo in the chasm, coming back as he spoke. “Derethil is well known in some lands, though I have heard him spoken of less here in the East. He was a king during the shadowdays, the time before memory. A powerful man. Commander of thousands, leader of tens of thousands. Tall, regal, blessed with fair skin and fairer eyes. He was a man to envy.”

  Just as the echoes faded below, Hoid began to play again, picking up the rhythm. He actually seemed to continue just where the echoing notes grew too soft, as if there had never been a break in the music. The notes grew more smooth, suggesting a king walking through court with his attendants. As Hoid played, eyes closed, he leaned forward toward the fire. The air he blew over the flute churned the smoke, stirring it.

  The music grew softer. The smoke swirled, and Kaladin thought he could make out the face of a man in the patterns of smoke, a man with a pointed chin and lofty cheekbones. It wasn’t really there, of course. Just imagination. But the haunting song and the swirling smoke seemed to encourage his imagination.

  “Derethil fought the Voidbringers during the days of the Heralds and Radiants,” Hoid said, eyes still closed, flute just below his lips, the song echoing in the chasm and seeming to accompany his words. “When there was finally peace, he found he was not content. His eyes always turned westward, toward the great open sea. He commissioned the finest ship men had ever known, a majestic vessel intended to do what none had dared before: sail the seas during a highstorm.”

  The echoes tapered off, and Hoid began playing again, as if alternating with an invisible partner. The smoke swirled, rising in the air, twisting in the wind of Hoid’s breath. And Kaladin almost thought he could see an enormous ship in a shipyard, with a sail as large as a building, secured to an arrowlike hull. The melody became quick and clipped, as if to imitate the sounds of mallets pounding and saws cutting.

  “Derethil’s goal,” Hoid paused and said, “was to seek the origin of the Voidbringers, the place where they had been spawned. Many called him a fool, yet he could not hold himself back. He named the vessel the Wandersail and gathered a crew of the bravest of sailors. Then, on a day when a highstorm brewed, this ship cast off. Riding out into the ocean, the sail hung wide, like arms open to the stormwinds….”

  The flute was at Hoid’s lips in a second and he stirred the fire by kicking at a piece of rockbud shell. Sparks of flame rose in the air and smoke puffed, swirling as Hoid rotated his head down and pointed the flute’s holes at the smoke. The song became violent, tempestuous, notes falling unexpectedly and trilling with quick undulations. Scales rippled into high notes, where they screeched airily.

  And Kaladin saw it in his mind’s eye. The massive ship suddenly miniscule before the awesome power of a highstorm. Blown, carried out into the endless sea. What had this Derethil hoped or expected to find? A highstorm on land was terrible enough. But on the sea?

  The sounds bounced off the echoing walls below. Kaladin found himself sinking down to the rocks, watching the swirling smoke and rising flames. Seeing the tiny ship captured and held within a furious maelstrom.

  Eventually, Hoid’s music slowed, and the violent echoes faded, leaving a much gentler song. Like lapping waves.

  “The Wandersail was nearly destroyed in the crash, but Derethil and most of his sailors survived. They found themselves on a ring of small islands surrounding an enormous whirlpool, where, it is said, the ocean drains. Derethil and his men were greeted by a strange people with long, limber bodies who wore robes of single color and shells in their hair unlike any that grow back on Roshar.

  “These people took the survivors in, fed them, and nursed them back to health. During his weeks of recovery, Derethil studied the strange people, who called themselves the Uvara, the People of the Great Abyss. They lived curious lives. Unlike the people in Roshar—who constantly argue— the Uvara always seemed to agree. From childhood, there were no questions. Each and every person went about his duty.”

  Hoid began the music again, letting the smoke rise unhindered. Kaladin thought he could see in it a people, industrious, always working. A building rose among them with a figure at the window, Derethil, watching. The music was calming, curious.

  “One day,” Hoid said, “while Derethil and his men were sparring to regain strength, a young serving girl brought them refreshment. She tripped on an uneven stone, dropping the goblets to the floor and shattering them. In a flash, the other Uvara descended on the hapless child and slaughtered her in a brutal way. Derethil and his men were so stunned that by the time they regained their wits, the child was dead. Angry, Derethil demanded to know the cause of the unjustified murder. One of the other natives explained. ‘Our emperor will not suffer failure.’”

  The music began again, sorrowful, and Kaladin shivered. He witnessed the girl being bludgeoned to death with rocks, and the proud form of Derethil bowing above her fallen body.

  Kaladin knew that sorrow. The sorrow of failure, of letting someone die when he should have been able to do something. So many people he loved had died.

  He had a reason for that now. He’d drawn the ire of the Heralds and the Almighty. It had to be that, didn’t it?

  He knew he should be getting back to Bridge Four. But he couldn’t pull himself away. He hung on the storyteller’s words.

  “As Derethil began to pay more attention,” Hoid said, his music echoing softly to accompany him, “he saw other murders. These Uvara, these People of the Great Abyss, were prone to astonishing cruelty. If one of their members did something wrong—something the slightest bit untoward or unfavorable—the others would slaughter him or her. Each time he asked, Derethil’s caretaker gave him the same answer. ‘Our emperor will not suffer failure.’”

  The echoing music faded, but once again Hoid lifted his flute just as it grew too soft to hear. The melody grew solemn. Soft, quiet, like a lament for one who had passed. And yet it was edged with mystery, occasional quick bursts, hinting at secrets.

  Kaladin frowned as he watched the smoke spin, making what appeared to be a tower. Tall, thin, with an open structure at the top.

  “The emperor, Derethil discovered, resided in the tower on the eastern coast of the largest island among the Uvara.”

  Kaladin felt a chill. The smoke images were just from his mind, adding to the story, weren’t they? Had he really seen a tower before Hoid mentioned it?

  “Derethil determined that he needed to confront this cruel emperor. What kind of monster would demand that such an obviously peaceful people kill so often and so terribly? Derethil gathered his sailors, a heroic group, and they armed themselves. The Uvara did not try to stop them, though they watched with fright as the strangers stormed the emperor’s tow
er.”

  Hoid fell silent, and didn’t turn back to his flute. Instead, he let the music echo in the chasm. It seemed to linger this time. Long, sinister notes.

  “Derethil and his men came out of the tower a short time later, carrying a desiccated corpse in fine robes and jewelry. ‘This is your emperor?’ Derethil demanded. ‘We found him in the top room, alone.’ It appeared that the man had been dead for years, but nobody had dared enter his tower. They were too frightened of him.

  “When he showed the Uvara the dead body, they began to wail and weep. The entire island was cast into chaos, as the Uvara began to burn homes, riot, or fall to their knees in torment. Amazed and confused, Derethil and his men stormed the Uvara shipyards, where the Wandersail was being repaired. Their guide and caretaker joined them, and she begged to accompany them in their escape. So it was that Nafti joined the crew.

  “Derethil and his men set sail, and though the winds were still, they rode the Wandersail around the whirlpool, using the momentum to spin them out and away from the islands. Long after they left, they could see the smoke rising from the ostensibly peaceful lands. They gathered on the deck, watching, and Derethil asked Nafti the reason for the terrible riots.”

  Hoid fell silent, letting his words rise with the strange smoke, lost to the night.

  “Well?” Kaladin demanded. “What was her response?”

  “Holding a blanket around herself, staring with haunted eyes at her lands, she replied, ‘Do you not see, Traveling One? If the emperor is dead, and has been all these years, then the murders we committed are not his responsibility. They are our own.’”

  Kaladin sat back. Gone was the taunting, playful tone Hoid had used earlier. No more mockery. No more quick tongue intended to confuse. This story had come from within his heart, and Kaladin found he could not speak. He just sat, thinking of that island and the terrible things that had been done.