The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Kal looked eastward. What sent the storms? His father said no ship had ever sailed for the Origin of Storms and returned safely. Few ships ever even left the coast. Being caught on the open seas during a storm meant death, so the stories said.

  He took another sip from his flask, then capped it, saving the rest in case Tien found another lurg. Distant men worked the fields, wearing overalls, laced brown shirts, and sturdy boots. It was worming season. A single worm could ruin an entire polyp’s worth of grain. It would incubate inside, slowly eating as the grain grew. When you finally opened up the polyp in the fall, all you’d find was a big fat slug the size of two men’s hands. And so they searched in the spring, going over each polyp. Where they found a burrow, they’d stick in a reed tipped with sugar, which the worm would latch on to. You pulled it out and squished it under your heel, then patched the hole with crem.

  It could take weeks to properly worm a field, and farmers usually went over their hills three or four times, fertilizing as they went. Kal had heard the process described a hundred times over. You didn’t live in a town like Hearthstone without listening to men gripe about worms.

  Oddly, he noticed a group older boys gathering at the foot of one of the hills. He recognized all of them, of course. Jost and Jest, brothers. Mord, Tift, Naget, Khav, and others. They each had solid, Alethi darkeyes names. Not like Kaladin’s own name. It was different.

  “Why aren’t they worming?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Laral said, shifting her attention to the boys. She got an odd look in her eyes. “Let’s go see.” She started down the hillside before Kal had a chance to object.

  He scratched his head, looking toward Tien. “We’re going down to the hillside there.”

  A youthful head popped up behind a boulder. Tien nodded energetically, then turned back to his searching. Kal slipped off the boulder and walked down the slope after Laral. She reached the boys, and they regarded her with uncomfortable expressions. She’d never spent much time with them, not like she had with Kal and Tien. Her father and his were pretty good friends, for all that one was lighteyed and the other dark.

  Laral took a perch on a nearby rock, waiting and saying nothing. Kal walked up. Why had she wanted to come down here, if she wasn’t going to talk to the other boys?

  “Ho, Jost,” Kal said. Senior among the boys at fourteen, Jost was nearly a man-and he looked it too. His chest was broad beyond his years, his legs thick and stocky, like those of his father. He was holding a length of wood from a sapling that had been shaved into a rough approximation of a quarterstaff. “Why aren’t you worming?”

  It was the wrong thing to say, and Kal knew it immediately. Several of the boys’ expressions darkened. It was a sore point to them that Kal never had to work the hills. His protests-that he spent hours upon hours memorizing muscles, bones, and cures-fell on uncaring ears. All they saw was a boy who got to spend his days in the shade while they toiled in the burning sun.

  “Old Tarn found a patch of polyps that ain’t growing right,” Jost finally said, shooting a glance at Laral. “Let us go for the day while they talked over whether to try another planting there, or just let them grow and see what comes of it.”

  Kal nodded, feeling awkward as he stood before the nine boys. They were sweaty, the knees of their trousers stained with crem and patched from rubbing stone. But Kal was clean, wearing a fine pair of trousers his mother had purchased just a few weeks before. His father had sent him and Tien out for the day while he tended to something at the citylord’s manor. Kal would pay for the break with late-night studying by Stormlight, but no use explaining that to the other boys.

  “So, er,” Kal said, “what were you all talking about?”

  Rather than answering, Naget said, “Kal, you know things.” Light haired and spindly, he was the tallest of the bunch. “Don’t you? About the world and the like?”

  “Yeah,” Kal said, scratching his head. “Sometimes.”

  “You ever heard of a darkeyes becoming a lighteyes?” Naget asked.

  “Sure,” Kal said. “It can happen, Father says. Wealthy darkeyed merchants marry lowborn lighteyes and join their family. Then maybe have lighteyed children. That sort of thing.”

  “No, not like that,” Khav said. He had low eyebrows and always seemed to have a perpetual scowl on his face. “You know. Real darkeyes. Like us.”

  Not like you, the tone seemed to imply. Kal’s family were the only one of second nahn in the town. Everyone else was fourth or fifth, and Kal’s rank made them uncomfortable around him. His father’s strange profession didn’t help either.

  It all left Kal feeling distinctly out-of-place.

  “You know how it can happen,” Kal said. “Ask Laral. She was just talking about it. If a man wins a Shardblade on the battlefield, his eyes become light.”

  “That’s right,” Laral said. “Everybody knows it. Even a slave could become a lighteyes if he won a Shardblade.”

  The boys nodded; they all had brown, black, or other dark-colored eyes. Winning a Shardblade was one of the main reasons common men went to war. In Vorin kingdoms, everyone had a chance to rise. It was, as Kal’s father would say, a fundamental tenet of their society.

  “Yeah,” Naget said impatiently. “But have you ever heard of it happening? Not just in stories, I mean. Does it happen for real?”

  “Sure,” Kal said. “It must. Otherwise, why would so many men go to war?”

  “Because,” Jest said, “we’ve gotta prepare men to fight for the Tranquiline Halls. We’ve gotta send soldiers to the Heralds. The ardents are always talking of it.”

  “In the same breaths that they tell us it’s all right to be a farmer too,” Khav said. “Like, farming’s some lonely second place or something.”

  “Hey,” Tift said. “My fah’s a farmer, and he’s right good at it. It’s a noble Calling! All your fahs are farmers.”

  “All right, fine,” Jost said. “But we ain’t talking of that. We’re talking of Shardbearers. You go to war, you can win a Shardblade and become a light-eyes. My fah, see, he should have been given that Shardblade. But the man who was with him, he took it while my fah was knocked out. Told the officer that he’d been the one to kill the Shardbearer, so he got the Blade, and my fah-”

  He was cut off by Laral’s tinkling laughter. Kal frowned. That was a different kind of laughter than he normally heard from her, much more subdued and kind of annoying. “Jost, you’re claiming your father won a Shardblade?” she said.

  “No. It was taken from him,” the larger boy said.

  “Didn’t your father fight in the wastescum skirmishes up north?” Laral said. “Tell him, Kaladin.”

  “She’s right, Jost. There weren’t any Shardbearers there-just Reshi raiders who thought they’d take advantage of the new king. They’ve never had any Shardblades. If your father saw one, he must be remembering incorrectly.”

  “Remembering incorrectly?” Jost said.

  “Er, sure,” Kal said quickly. “I’m not saying he’s lying, Jost. He just might have some trauma-induced hallucinations, or something like that.”

  The boys grew silent, looking at Kal. One scratched his head.

  Jost spat to the side. He seemed to be watching Laral from the corner of his eye. She pointedly looked at Kal and smiled at him.

  “You always got to make a man feel like an idiot, don’t you, Kal?” Jost said.

  “What? No, I-”

  “You want to make my fah sound like a fool,” Jost said, face red. “And you want to make me sound stupid. Well, some of us ain’t lucky enough to spend our days eating fruit and laying about. We’ve got to work.”

  “I don’t-”

  Jost tossed the quarterstaff to Kal. He caught it awkwardly. Then Jost took the other staff from his brother. “You insult my fah, you get a fight. That’s honor. You have honor, lordling?”

  “I’m no lordling,” Kal spat. “Stormfather, Jost, I’m only a few n
ahn higher than you are.”

  Jost’s eyes grew angrier at the mention of nahn. He held up his quarterstaff. “You going to fight me or not?” Angerspren began to appear in small pools at his feet, bright red.

  Kal knew what Jost was doing. It wasn’t uncommon for the boys to look for a way to make themselves look better than him. Kal’s father said it had to do with their insecurity. He’d have told Kal to just drop the quarterstaff and walk away.

  But Laral was sitting right there, smiling at him. And men didn’t become heroes by walking away. “All right. Sure.” Kal held up his quarterstaff.

  Jost swung immediately, more quickly than Kal had anticipated. The other boys watched with a mixture of glee, shock, and amazement. Kal barely managed to get his staff up. The lengths of wood cracked together, sending a jolt up Kal’s arms.

  Kal was knocked off balance. Jost moved quickly, stepping to the side and swinging his staff down and hitting Kal in the foot. Kal cried out as a flash of agony lanced up his leg, and he released the staff with one hand and reached down.

  Jost swung his staff around and hit Kal’s side. Kal gasped, letting the staff clatter to the stones and grabbing his side as he fell to his knees. He breathed out in huffing breaths, straining against the pain. Small, spindly painspren-glowing pale orange hand shapes, like stretching sinew or muscles-crawled from the stone around him.

  Kal dropped one hand to the stones, leaning forward as he held his side. You’d better not have broken any of my ribs, you cremling, he thought.

  To the side, Laral pursed her lips. Kal felt a sudden, overpowering shame.

  Jost lowered his staff, looking abashed. “Well,” he said. “You can see that my fah trained me right good. Maybe that will show you. The things he says are true, and-”

  Kal growled in anger and pain, snatching his quarterstaff from the ground and leaping at Jost. The older boy cursed, stumbling backward as he raised his weapon. Kal bellowed, slamming his weapon forward.

  Something changed in that moment. Kal felt an energy as he held the weapon, an excitement that washed away his pain. He spun, smashing the staff into one of Jost’s hands.

  Jost let go with that hand, screaming. Kal brought his weapon around and slammed it into the boy’s side. Kal had never held a weapon before, never been in a fight any more dangerous than a wrestling match with Tien. But the length of wood felt right in his fingers. He was amazed by how wonderful the moment felt.

  Jost grunted, stumbling again, and Kal brought his weapon back around, preparing to smash Jost’s face. He raised his staff, but then froze. Jost was bleeding from the hand Kal had hit. Just a little, but it was blood.

  He’d hurt someone.

  Jost growled and lurched upright. Before Kal could protest, the larger boy swept Kal’s legs from underneath him, sending him to the ground, knocking the breath from his lungs. That set afire the wound in his side, and the painspren scampered across the ground, latching on to Kal’s side, looking like an orange scar as they fed on Kal’s agony.

  Jost stepped back. Kal lay on his back, breathing. He didn’t know what to feel. Holding the staff in that moment had felt wonderful. Incredible. At the same time, he could see Laral to the side. She stood up and, instead of kneeling to help him, turned and walked away, toward her father’s mansion.

  Tears welled in Kal’s eyes. With a shout, he rolled over and grabbed the quarterstaff again. He would not give in!

  “None of that now,” Jost said from behind. Kal felt something hard on his back, a boot shoving him down to the stone. Jest took the staff from Kal’s fingers.

  I failed. I…lost. He hated the feeling, hated it far more than the pain.

  “You did well,” Jost said grudgingly. “But leave off. I don’t want to have to hurt you for real.”

  Kal bowed his head down, letting his forehead rest on the warm, sunlit rock. Jost removed his foot, and the boys withdrew, chatting, their boots scraping on rock. Kal forced himself to his hands and knees, then up onto his feet.

  Jost turned back, wary, holding his quarterstaff in one hand.

  “Teach me,” Kal said.

  Jost blinked in surprise. He glanced at his brother.

  “Teach me,” Kal pled, stepping forward. “I’ll worm for you, Jost. My father gives me two hours off each afternoon. I’ll do your work then if you’ll teach me, in the evenings, what your father is teaching you with that staff.”

  He had to know. Had to feel the weapon in his hands again. Had to see if that moment he’d felt had been a fluke. Jost considered, then finally shook his head. “Can’t. Your fah would kill me. Get those surgeon’s hands of yours all covered with calluses? Wouldn’t be right.” He turned away. “You go be what you are, Kal. I’ll be what I am.”

  Kal stood for a long while, watching them go. He sat down on the rock. Laral’s figure was growing distant. There were some servants coming down the hillside to fetch her. Should he chase after her? His side still hurt, and he was annoyed at her for leading him down to the others in the first place. And, above all, he was still embarrassed.

  He lay back down, emotions welling inside of him. He had trouble sorting through them.

  “Kaladin?”

  He turned, ashamed to find tears in his eyes, and saw Tien sitting on the ground behind him. “How long have you been there?” Kal snapped.

  Tien smiled, then set a rock on the ground. He climbed to his feet and hurried away, not stopping when Kal called after him. Grumbling, Kal forced himself to his feet and walked over to pick up the rock.

  It was another dull, ordinary stone. Tien had a habit of finding those and thinking they were incredibly precious. He had an entire collection of them back in the house. He knew where he’d found each one, and could tell you what was special about it.

  With a sigh, Kal began walking back toward the town.

  You go be what you are. I’ll be what I am.

  His side smarted. Why hadn’t he hit Jost when he’d had the chance? Could he train himself out of freezing in battle like that? He could learn to hurt. Couldn’t he?

  Did he want to?

  You go be what you are.

  What did a man do if he didn’t know what he was? Or even what he wanted to be?

  Eventually, he reached Hearthstone proper. The hundred or so buildings were set in rows, each one shaped like a wedge with the low side pointing stormward. The roofs were of thick wood, tarred to seal out the rain. The northern and southern sides of the buildings rarely had windows, but the fronts-facing west away from the storms-were nearly all window. Like the plants of the stormlands, the lives of men here were dominated by the highstorms.

  Kal’s home was near the outskirts. It was larger than most, built wide to accommodate the surgery room, which had its own entrance. The door was ajar, so Kal peeked in. He’d expected to see his mother cleaning, but instead found that his father had returned from Brightlord Wistiow’s manor. Lirin sat on the edge of the operating table, hands in his lap, bald head bowed. He held his spectacles in his hand, and he looked exhausted.

  “Father?” Kal asked. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  Lirin looked up. His face was somber, distant.

  “Father?” Kal asked, growing more concerned.

  “Brightlord Wistiow has been carried by the winds.”

  “He’s dead?” Kal was so shocked he forgot his side. Wistiow had always been there. He couldn’t be gone. What of Laral? “He was healthy just last week!”

  “He has always been frail, Kal,” Lirin said. “The Almighty calls all men back to the Spiritual Realm eventually.”

  “You didn’t do anything?” Kal blurted out; he regretted the words immediately.

  “I did all I could,” his father said, rising. “Perhaps a man with more training than I…Well, there is no use in regrets.” He walked to the side of the room, removing the black covering from the goblet lamp filled with diamond spheres. It lit the room immediately, blazing like a tiny sun.

  “We have no citylord
then,” Kal said, raising a hand to his head. “He had no son….”

  “Those in Kholinar will appoint us a new citylord,” Lirin said. “Almighty send them wisdom in the choice.” He looked at the goblet lamp. Those were the citylord’s spheres. A small fortune.

  Kal’s father put the covering right back on the goblet, as if he hadn’t just removed it. The motion plunged the room back into darkness, and Kal blinked as his eyes adjusted.

  “He left these to us,” Kal’s father said.

  Kal started. “What?”

  “You’re to be sent to Kharbranth when you turn sixteen. These spheres will pay your way-Brightlord Wistiow requested it be done, a last act to care for his people. You will go and become a true master surgeon, then return to Hearthstone.”

  In that moment, Kal knew his fate had been sealed. If Brightlord Wistiow had demanded it, Kal would go to Kharbranth. He turned and walked from the surgery room, passing out into the sunlight, not saying another word to his father.

  He sat down on the steps. What did he want? He didn’t know. That was the problem. Glory, honor, the things Laral had said…none of those really mattered to him. But there had been something there when he’d held the quarterstaff. And now, suddenly, the decision had been taken from him.

  The rocks Tien had given him were still in his pocket. He pulled them out, then took his canteen off his belt and washed them with water. The first one he’d been given showed the white swirls and strata. It appeared the other one had a hidden design too.

  It looked like a face, smiling at him, made of white bits in the rock. Kal smiled despite himself, though it quickly faded. A rock wasn’t going to solve his problems.

  Unfortunately, though he sat for a long while thinking, it didn’t look like anything would solve his problems. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a surgeon, and he felt suddenly constricted by what life was forcing him to become.

  But that one moment holding the quarterstaff sang to him. A single moment of clarity in an otherwise confusing world.

  17

  A bloody red sunset