The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  At first, the darkeyed commoners enjoyed the novelty of owning him.

  Slaves were far too expensive for most, and parshmen were even more valuable. So having someone like Szeth to order around was quite the novelty. He cleaned floors, sawed wood, helped in the fields, and carried burdens. Some treated him well, some did not.

  But they always got rid of him.

  Perhaps they could sense the truth, that he was capable of so much more than they dared use him for. It was one thing to have a slave of your own. But when that slave talked like a lighteyes and knew more than you did? It made them uncomfortable.

  Szeth tried to play the part, tried to make himself act less refined. It was very difficult for him. Perhaps impossible. What would these men say if they knew that the man who emptied their chamber pot was a Shardbearer and a Surgebinder? A Windrunner, like the Radiants of old? The moment he summoned his Blade, his eyes would turn from dark green to pale-almost glowing-sapphire, a unique effect of his particular weapon.

  Best that they never discovered. Szeth gloried in being wasted; each day he was made to clean or dig instead of kill was a victory. That evening five years ago still haunted him. Before then, he had been ordered to kill-but always in secret, silently. Never before had he been given such deliberately terrible instructions.

  Kill, destroy, and cut your way to the king. Be seen doing it. Leave witnesses. Wounded but alive….

  “…and that is when he swore to serve me my entire life,” Took finished. “He’s been with me ever since.”

  The listening men turned to Szeth. “It is true,” he said, as he’d been ordered earlier. “Every word of it.”

  Took smiled. Szeth didn’t make him uncomfortable; he apparently considered it natural that Szeth obeyed him. Perhaps as a result he would remain Szeth’s master longer than the others.

  “Well,” Took said, “Oi should be going. Need to get an early start tomorrow. More places to see, more unseen roads to dare…”

  He liked to think of himself as a seasoned traveler, though as far as Szeth could tell, he just moved around in a wide circle. There were many small mines-and therefore small villages-in this part of Bavland. Took had probably been to this same village years back, but the mines made for a lot of transient workers. It was unlikely he’d be remembered, unless someone had noted his terribly exaggerated stories.

  Terrible or not, the other miners seemed to thirst for more. They urged him on, offering him another drink, and he modestly agreed.

  Szeth sat quietly, legs folded, hands in his lap, blood trickling down his arm. Had the Parshendi known what they were consigning him to by tossing his Oathstone away as they fled Kholinar that night? Szeth had been required to recover it, then stand there beside the road, wondering if he would be discovered and executed-hoping he’d be discovered and executed-until a passing merchant had cared enough to inquire. By then, Szeth had stood only in a loincloth. His honor had forced him to discard the white clothing, as it would have made him easier to recognize. He had to preserve himself so that he could suffer.

  After a short explanation that left out incriminating details, Szeth had found himself riding in the back of the merchant’s cart. The merchant-a man named Avado-had been clever enough to realize that in the wake of the king’s death, foreigners might be treated poorly. He’d made his way to Jah Keved, never knowing that he harbored Gavilar’s murderer as his serving man.

  The Alethi didn’t search for him. They assumed that he, the infamous “Assassin in White,” had retreated with the Parshendi. They probably expected to discover him in the middle of the Shattered Plains.

  The miners eventually tired of Took’s increasingly slurred stories. They bid him farewell, ignoring his broad hints that another cup of beer would prompt him to tell his greatest tale: that of the time when he’d seen the Nightwatcher herself and stolen a sphere that glowed black at night. That tale always discomforted Szeth, as it reminded him of the strange black sphere Gavilar had given him. He’d hidden that carefully in Jah Keved. He didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t want to risk a master taking it from him.

  When nobody offered Took another drink, he reluctantly stumbled from his chair and waved Szeth to follow him from the tavern. The street was dark outside. This town, Ironsway, had a proper town square, several hundred homes, and three different taverns. That made it practically a metropolis for Bavland-the small, mostly-ignored stretch of land just south of the Horneater Peaks. The area was technically part of Jah Keved, but even its highprince tended to stay away from it.

  Szeth followed his master through the streets toward the poorer district. Took was too cheap to pay for a room in the nice, or even modest, areas of a town. Szeth looked over his shoulder, wishing that the Second Sister-known as Nomon to these Easterners-had risen to give a little more light.

  Took stumbled drunkenly, then fell over in the street. Szeth sighed. It would not be the first night he carried his master home to his bed. He knelt to lift Took.

  He froze. A warm liquid was pooling beneath his master’s body. Only then did he notice the knife in Took’s neck.

  Szeth instantly came alert as a group of footpads slipped out of the alleyway. One raised a hand, the knife in it reflecting starlight, preparing to throw at Szeth. He tensed. There were infused spheres he could draw upon in Took’s pouch.

  “Wait,” hissed one of the footpads.

  The man with the knife paused. Another man came closer, inspecting Szeth. “He’s Shin. Won’t hurt a cremling.”

  Others pulled the corpse into the alleyway. The one with the knife raised his weapon again. “He could still yell.”

  “Then why hasn’t he? Oi’m telling you, they’re harmless. Almost like parshmen. We can sell him.”

  “Maybe,” the second said. “He’s terrified. Look at ’im.”

  “Come ’ere,” the first footpad said, waving Szeth forward.

  He obeyed, walking into the alley, which was suddenly illuminated as the other footpads pulled open Took’s pouch.

  “Kelek,” one of them said, “hardly worth the effort. A handful of chips and two marks, not a single broam in the lot.”

  “Oi’m telling you,” the first man said. “We can sell this fellow as a slave. People like Shin servants.”

  “He’s just a kid.”

  “Nah. They all look like that. Hey, whacha got there?” The man plucked a twinkling, sphere-sized chunk of rock from the hand of the man counting the spheres. It was fairly ordinary, a simple piece of rock with a few quartz crystals set into it and a rusty vein of iron on one side. “What is this?”

  “Worthless,” one of the men said.

  “I am required to tell you,” Szeth said quietly, “that you are holding my Oathstone. So long as you possess it, you are my master.”

  “What’s that?” one of the footpads said, standing.

  The first one closed his hand around the stone, shooting a wary glance at the others. He looked back at Szeth. “Your master? What does that mean exactly, in precise terms and all?”

  “I must obey you,” Szeth said. “In all things, though I will not follow an order to kill myself.” He also couldn’t be ordered to give up his Blade, but there was no need to mention that at the moment.

  “You’ll obey me?” the footpad said. “You mean, you’ll do what Oi say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything Oi say?”

  Szeth closed his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Well, ain’t that something interestin’,” the man said, musing. “Something interestin’ indeed….”

  Part Two

  The Illuminating Storms

  12

  Unity

  Old friend, I hope this missive finds you well. Though, as you are now essentially immortal, I would guess that wellness on your part is something of a given.

  “Today,” King Elhokar announced, riding beneath the bright open sky, “is an excellent day to slay a god. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Undoubtedly, Your Maje
sty.” Sadeas’s reply was smooth, quick, and said with a knowing smile. “One might say that gods, as a rule, should fear the Alethi nobility. Most of us at least.”

  Adolin gripped his reins a little more tightly; it put him on edge every time Highprince Sadeas spoke.

  “Do we have to ride up here at the front?” Renarin whispered.

  “I want to listen,” Adolin replied softly.

  He and his brother rode near the front of the column, near the king and his highprinces. Behind them extended a grand procession: a thousand soldiers in Kholin blue, dozens of servants, and even women in palanquins to scribe accounts of the hunt. Adolin glanced at them all as he reached for his canteen.

  He was wearing his Shardplate, and so he had to be careful when grabbing it, lest he crush it. One’s muscles reacted with increased speed, strength, and dexterity when wearing the armor, and it took practice to use it correctly. Adolin was still occasionally caught by surprise, though he’d held this suit-inherited from his mother’s side of the family-since his sixteenth birthday. That was now seven years past.

  He turned and took a long drink of lukewarm water. Sadeas rode to the king’s left, and Dalinar-Adolin’s father-was a solid figure riding at the king’s right. The final highprince on the hunt was Vamah, who wasn’t a Shardbearer.

  The king was resplendent in his golden Shardplate-of course, Plate could make any man look regal. Even Sadeas looked impressive when wearing his red Plate, though his bulbous face and ruddy complexion weakened the effect. Sadeas and the king flaunted their Plate. And…well, perhaps Adolin did too. He’d had his painted blue, a few ornamentations welded onto the helm and pauldrons to give an extra look of danger. How could you not show off when wearing something as grand as Shardplate?

  Adolin took another drink, listening to the king talk about his excitement for the hunt. Only one Shardbearer in the procession-indeed, only one Shardbearer in the entirety of the ten armies-used no paint or ornamentations on his Plate. Dalinar Kholin. Adolin’s father preferred to leave his armor its natural slate-grey color.

  Dalinar rode beside the king, his face somber. He rode with his helm tied to his saddle, exposing a square face topped by short black hair that had gone white at the temples. Few women had ever called Dalinar Kholin handsome; his nose was the wrong shape, his features blocky rather than delicate. It was the face of a warrior.

  He rode astride a massive black Ryshadium stallion, one of the largest horses that Adolin had ever seen-and while the king and Sadeas looked regal in their armor, somehow Dalinar managed to look like a soldier. To him, the Plate was not an ornament. It was a tool. He never seemed to be surprised by the strength or speed the armor lent him. It was as if, for Dalinar Kholin, wearing his Plate was his natural state-it was the times without that were abnormal. Perhaps that was one reason he’d earned the reputation of being one of the greatest warriors and generals who ever lived.

  Adolin found himself wishing, passionately, that his father would do a little more these days to live up to that reputation.

  He’s thinking about the visions, Adolin thought, regarding his father’s distant expression and troubled eyes. “It happened again last night,” Adolin said softly to Renarin. “During the highstorm.”

  “I know,” Renarin said. His voice was measured, controlled. He always paused before he replied to a question, as if testing the words in his mind. Some women Adolin knew said Renarin’s ways made them feel as if he were dissecting them with his mind. They’d shiver when they spoke of him, though Adolin had never found his younger brother the least bit discomforting.

  “What do you think they mean?” Adolin asked, speaking quietly so only Renarin could hear. “Father’s…episodes.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Renarin, we can’t keep ignoring them. The soldiers are talking. Rumors are spreading through all ten armies!”

  Dalinar Kholin was going mad. Whenever a highstorm came, he fell to the floor and began to shake. Then he began raving in gibberish. Often, he’d stand, blue eyes delusional and wild, swinging and flailing. Adolin had to restrain him lest he hurt himself or others.

  “He sees things,” Adolin said. “Or he thinks he does.”

  Adolin’s grandfather had suffered from delusions. When he’d grown old, he’d thought he was back at war. Was that what happened to Dalinar? Was he reliving youthful battles, days when he’d earned his renown? Or was it that terrible night he saw over and over, the night when his brother had been murdered by the Assassin in White? And why did he so often mention the Knights Radiant soon after his episodes?

  It all made Adolin feel sick. Dalinar was the Blackthorn, a genius of the battlefield and a living legend. Together, he and his brother had reunited Alethkar’s warring highprinces after centuries of strife. He had defeated countless challengers in duels, had won dozens of battles. The entire kingdom looked up to him. And now this.

  What did you do, as a son, when the man you loved-the greatest man alive-started to lose his wits?

  Sadeas was speaking about a recent victory. He’d won another gemheart two days back, and the king-it appeared-hadn’t heard of it. Adolin tensed at the boasts.

  “We should move back,” Renarin said.

  “We are of rank enough to be here,” Adolin said.

  “I don’t like how you get when you’re around Sadeas.”

  We have to keep an eye on the man, Renarin, Adolin thought. He knows Father is weakening. He’ll try to strike. Adolin forced himself to smile, however. He tried to be relaxed and confident for Renarin. Generally, that wasn’t difficult. He’d happily spend his entire life dueling, lounging, and courting the occasional pretty girl. Of late, however, life didn’t seem content to let him enjoy its simple pleasures.

  “…model of courage lately, Sadeas,” the king was saying. “You’ve done very well in capturing gemhearts. You are to be commended.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. Though the competition grows unexciting, as some people don’t seem interested in participating. I guess even the best weapons eventually grow dull.”

  Dalinar, who might once have responded to the veiled slur, said nothing. Adolin gritted his teeth. It was flat-out unconscionable for Sadeas to be taking shots at his father in his present state. Perhaps Adolin should offer the pompous bastard a challenge. You didn’t duel highprinces-it just wasn’t done, not unless you were ready to make a big storm of it. But maybe he was. Maybe-

  “Adolin…” Renarin said warningly.

  Adolin looked to the side. He’d held out his hand, as if to summon his Blade. He picked up his reins with the hand instead. Storming man, he thought. Leave my father alone.

  “Why don’t we talk about the hunt?” Renarin said. As usual, the younger Kholin rode with a straight back and perfect posture, eyes hidden behind his spectacles, a model of propriety and solemnity. “Aren’t you excited?”

  “Bah,” Adolin said. “I never find hunts as interesting as everyone says they’re going to be. I don’t care how big the beast is-in the end, it’s really just butchery.”

  Now, dueling, that was exciting. The feel of the Shardblade in your hand, of facing someone crafty, skilled, and careful. Man against man, strength against strength, mind against mind. Hunting some dumb beast just couldn’t compare to that.

  “Maybe you should have invited Janala along,” Renarin said.

  “She wouldn’t have come,” Adolin said. “Not after…well, you know. Rilla was very vocal yesterday. It was best to just leave.”

  “You really should have been wiser in your treatment of her,” Renarin said, sounding disapproving.

  Adolin mumbled a noncommittal reply. It wasn’t his fault that his relationships often burned out quickly. Well, technically, this time it was his fault. But it wasn’t usually. This was just an oddity

  The king began complaining about something. Renarin and Adolin had lagged behind, and Adolin couldn’t hear what was being said.

  “Let’s ride up closer,” Adolin said, nudgi
ng his mount forward.

  Renarin rolled his eyes, but followed.

  Unite them.

  The words whispered in Dalinar’s mind. He couldn’t rid himself of them. They consumed him as he trotted Gallant across a rocky, boulder-strewn plateau on the Shattered Plains.

  “Shouldn’t we be there by now?” the king asked.

  “We’re still two or three plateaus away from the hunting site, Your Majesty,” Dalinar said, distracted. “It will be another hour, perhaps, observing proper protocols. If we had vantage, we could probably see the pavilion to-”

  “Vantage? Would that rock formation up ahead do?”

  “I suppose,” Dalinar said, inspecting the towerlike length of rock. “We could send scouts to check.”

  “Scouts? Bah. I need a run, Uncle. I’ll bet you five full broams that I can beat you to the top.” And with that, the king galloped away in a thunder of hooves, leaving behind a shocked group of lighteyes, attendants, and guards.

  “Storm it!” Dalinar cursed, kicking his horse into motion. “Adolin, you have command! Secure the next plateau, just in case.”

  His son, who had been lagging behind, nodded sharply. Dalinar galloped after the king, a figure in golden armor and a long blue cape. Hoofbeats pounded the stone, rock formations whipping past. Ahead, the steep, spike-like spire of rock rose from the lip of the plateau. Such formations were common out here on the Shattered Plains.

  Curse that boy. Dalinar still thought of Elhokar as a boy, though the king was in his twenty-seventh year. But sometimes he acted like a boy. Why couldn’t he give more warning before leaping into one of these stunts?

  Still, as Dalinar rode, he admitted to himself that it did feel good to charge freely, helm off, face to the wind. His pulse picked up as he got into the race, and he forgave its impetuous beginning. For the moment, Dalinar let himself forget his troubles and the words that had been echoing in his head.