The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  Kal hesitated, growing angry.

  “You see how his little mind works,” Rillir said to Laral. “Like a dying fire, burning what little fuel it has, pumping out smoke. Ah, and look, his face grows red from the heat of it.”

  “Rillir, please,” Laral said, laying her hand on his arm.

  Rillir glanced at her, then rolled his eyes. “You’re as provincial as my father sometimes, dear.” He stood up straight and-with a look of resignation-led her past the nook and into the kitchen proper.

  Kal sat back down hard, nearly bruising his legs on the bench with the force of it. A serving boy brought him his food and set it on the table, but that only reminded Kal of his childishness. So he didn’t eat it; he just stared at it until, eventually, his father walked into the kitchen. Rillir and Laral were gone by then.

  Lirin walked to the alcove and surveyed Kal. “You didn’t eat.”

  Kal shook his head.

  “You should have. It was free. Come on.”

  They walked in silence from the mansion into the dark night. The carriage awaited them, and soon Kal again sat facing his father. The driver climbed into place, making the vehicle quiver, and a snap of his whip set the horses in motion.

  “I want to be a surgeon,” Kal said suddenly.

  His father’s face-hidden in shadow-was unreadable. But when he spoke, he sounded confused. “I know that, son.”

  “No. I want to be a surgeon. I don’t want to run away to join the war.”

  Silence in the darkness.

  “You were considering that?” Lirin asked.

  “Yes,” Kal admitted. “It was childish. But I’ve decided for myself that I want to learn surgery instead.”

  “Why? What made you change?”

  “I need to know how they think,” Kal said, nodding back toward the mansion. “They’re trained to speak their sentences in knots, and I have to be able to face them and talk back at them. Not fold like…” He hesitated.

  “Like I did?” Lirin asked with a sigh.

  Kal bit his lip, but had to ask. “How many spheres did you agree to give him? Will I still have enough to go to Kharbranth?”

  “I didn’t give him a thing.”

  “But-”

  “Roshone and I talked for a time, arguing over amounts. I pretended to grow hotheaded and left.”

  “Pretended?” Kal asked, confused.

  His father leaned forward, whispering to make certain the driver couldn’t hear. With the bouncing and the noise of the wheels on the stone, there was little danger of that. “He has to think that I’m willing to bend. Today’s meeting was about giving the appearance of desperation. A strong front at first, followed by frustration, letting him think that he’d gotten to me. Finally a retreat. He’ll invite me again in a few months, after letting me ‘sweat.’”

  “But you won’t bend then, either?” Kal whispered.

  “No. Giving him any of the spheres would make him greedy for the rest. These lands don’t produce as they used to, and Roshone is nearly broke from losing political battles. I still don’t know which highlord was behind sending him here to torment us, though I wish I had him for a few moments in a dark room….”

  The ferocity with which Lirin said that shocked Kal. It was the closest he’d ever heard his father come to threatening real violence.

  “But why go through this in the first place?” Kal whispered. “You said that we can keep resisting him. Mother thinks so too. We won’t eat well, but we won’t starve.”

  His father didn’t reply, though he looked troubled.

  “You need to make him think that we’re capitulating,” Kal said. “Or that we’re close to doing so. So that he’ll stop looking for ways to undermine us? So he’ll focus his attention on making a deal and not-”

  Kal froze. He saw something unfamiliar in his father’s eyes. Something like guilt. Suddenly it made sense. Cold, terrible sense.

  “Stormfather,” Kal whispered. “You did steal the spheres, didn’t you?”

  His father remained silent, riding in the old carriage, shadowed and black.

  “That’s why you’ve been so tense since Wistiow died,” Kal whispered. “The drinking, the worrying…You’re a thief! We’re a family of thieves.”

  The carriage turned, and the violet light of Salas illuminated Lirin’s face. He didn’t look half so ominous from that angle-in fact, he looked fragile. He clasped his hands before him, eyes reflecting moonlight. “Wistiow was not lucid during the final days, Kal,” he whispered. “I knew that, with his death, we would lose the promise of a union. Laral had not reached her day of majority, and the new citylord wouldn’t let a darkeyes take her inheritance through marriage.”

  “So you robbed him?” Kal felt himself shrinking.

  “I made certain that promises were kept. I had to do something. I couldn’t trust to the generosity of the new citylord. Wisely, as you can see.”

  All of this time, Kal had assumed that Roshone was persecuting them out of malice and spite. But it turned out he was justified. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Does it change so much?” Lirin whispered. His face looked haunted in the dim light. “What is different now?”

  “Everything.”

  “And yet nothing. Roshone still wants those spheres, and we still deserve them. Wistiow, if he’d been fully lucid, would have given us those spheres. I’m certain.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No.”

  Things were the same, yet different. One step, and the world flipped upside down. The villain became the hero, the hero the villain. “I-” Kal said. “I can’t decide if what you did was incredibly brave or incredibly wrong.”

  Lirin sighed. “I know how you feel.” He sat back. “Please, don’t tell Tien what we’ve done.” What we’ve done. Hesina had helped him. “When you are older, you’ll understand.”

  “Maybe,” Kal said, shaking his head. “But one thing hasn’t changed. I want to go to Kharbranth.”

  “Even on stolen spheres?”

  “I’ll find a way to pay them back. Not to Roshone. To Laral.”

  “She’ll be a Roshone before too long,” Lirin said. “We should expect an engagement between her and Rillir before the year is out. Roshone will not let her slip away, not now that he’s lost political favor in Kholinar. She represents one of the few chances his son has for an alliance with a good house.”

  Kal felt his stomach turn at the mention of Laral. “I have to learn. Perhaps I can…”

  Can what, he thought. Come back and convince her to leave Rillir for me? Ridiculous.

  He looked up suddenly at his father, who had bowed his head, looking sorrowful. He was a hero. A villain too. But a hero to his family. “I won’t tell Tien,” Kal whispered. “And I’m going to use the spheres to travel to Kholinar and study.”

  His father looked up.

  “I want to learn to face lighteyes, like you do,” Kal said. “Any of them can make a fool of me. I want to learn to talk like them, think like them.”

  “I want you to learn so that you can help people, son. Not so you can get back at the lighteyes.”

  “I think I can do both. If I can learn to be clever enough.”

  Lirin snorted. “You’re plenty clever, son. You’ve got enough of your mother in you to talk circles around a lighteyes. The university will show you how, Kal.”

  “I want to start going by my full name,” he replied, surprising himself. “Kaladin.” It was a man’s name. He’d always disliked how it sounded like the name of a lighteyes. Now it seemed to fit.

  He wasn’t a darkeyed farmer, but he wasn’t a lighteyed lord either. Something in between. Kal had been a child who wanted to join the army because it was what other boys dreamed of. Kaladin would be a man who learned surgery and all the ways of the lighteyes. And someday he would return to this town and prove to Roshone, Rillir, and Laral herself that they had been wrong to dismiss him.

  “Very well,” Lirin said. “Kaladin.”
/>   38

  Envisager

  “Born from the darkness, they bear its taint still, marked upon their bodies much as the fire marks their souls.”

  — I consider Gashashson-Navammis a trustworthy source, though I’m not certain about this translation. Find the original quote in the fourteenth book of Seld and retranslate it myself, perhaps?

  Kaladin floated.

  Persistent fever, accompanied by cold sweats and hallucinations. Likely cause is infected wounds; clean with antiseptic to ward away rotspren. Keep the subject hydrated.

  He was back in Hearthstone with his family. Only he was a grown man. The soldier he had become. And he didn’t fit with them anymore. His father kept asking, How did this happen? You said you wanted to become a surgeon. A surgeon…

  Broken ribs. Caused by trauma to the side, inflicted by a beating. Wrap the chest and prevent the subject from taking part in strenuous activity.

  Occasionally, he’d open his eyes and see a dark room. It was cold, the walls made of stone, with a high roof. Other people lay in lines, covered in blankets. Corpses. They were corpses. This was a ware house where they were lined up for sale. Who bought corpses?

  Highprince Sadeas. He bought corpses. They still walked after he bought them, but they were corpses. The stupid ones refused to accept it, pretending they were alive.

  Lacerations on face, arms, and chest. Outer layer of skin stripped away in several patches. Caused by prolonged exposure to highstorm winds. Bandage wounded areas, apply a denocax salve to encourage new skin growth.

  Time was passing. A lot of it. He should be dead. Why wasn’t he dead? He wanted to lie back and let it happen.

  But no. No. He had failed Tien. He had failed Goshel. He had failed his parents. He had failed Dallet. Dear Dallet.

  He would not fail Bridge Four. He would not!

  Hypothermia, caused by extreme cold. Warm subject and force him to remain seated. Do not let him sleep. If he survives a few hours, there will likely be no lasting aftereffects.

  If he survives a few hours…

  Bridgemen weren’t supposed to survive.

  Why would Lamaril say that? What army would employ men who were supposed to die?

  His perspective had been too narrow, too shortsighted. He needed to understand the army’s objectives. He watched the battle’s progress, horrified. What had he done?

  He needed to go back and change it. But no. He was wounded, wasn’t he? He was bleeding on the ground. He was one of the fallen spearmen. He was a bridgeman from Bridge Two, betrayed by those fools in Bridge Four, who diverted all of the archers.

  How dare they? How dare they?

  How dare they survive by killing me!

  Strained tendons, ripped muscles, bruised and cracked bones, and pervasive soreness caused by extreme conditions. Enforce bed rest by any means necessary. Check for large and persistent bruises or pallor caused by internal hemorrhaging. That can be life-threatening. Be prepared for surgery.

  He saw the deathspren. They were fist-size and black, with many legs and deep red eyes that glowed, leaving trails of burning light. They clustered around him, skittering this way and that. Their voices were whispers, scratchy sounds like paper being torn. They terrified him, but he couldn’t escape them. He could barely move.

  Only the dying could see deathspren. You saw them, then died. Only the very, very lucky few survived after that. Deathspren knew when the end was close.

  Blistered fingers and toes, caused by frostnip. Make sure to apply antiseptic to any blisters that break. Encourage the body’s natural healing. Permanent damage is unlikely.

  Standing before the deathspren was a tiny figure of light. Not translucent, as she had always appeared before, but of pure white light. That soft, feminine face had a nobler, more angular cast to it now, like a warrior from a forgotten time. Not childlike at all. She stood guard on his chest, holding a sword made of light.

  That glow was so pure, so sweet. It seemed to be the glow of life itself. Whenever one of the deathspren got too close, she would charge at it, wielding her radiant blade.

  The light warded them off.

  But there were a lot of deathspren. More and more each time he was lucid enough to look.

  Severe delusions caused by trauma to the head. Maintain observation of subject. Do not allow alcohol intake. Enforce rest. Administer fathom bark to reduce cranial swelling. Firemoss can be used in extreme cases, but beware letting the subject form an addiction.

  If medication fails, trepanning the skull may be needed to relieve pressure.

  Usually fatal.

  Teft entered the barrack at midday. Ducking into the shadowy interior was like entering a cave. He glanced to the left, where the other wounded usually slept. They were all outside at the moment, getting some sun. All five were doing well, even Leyten.

  Teft passed the lines of rolled-up blankets at the sides of the room, walking to the back of the chamber where Kaladin lay.

  Poor man, Teft thought. What’s worse, being sick near to death, or having to stay all the way back here, away from the light? It was necessary. Bridge Four walked a precarious line. They had been allowed to cut Kaladin down, and so far nobody had tried to stop them from caring for him. Practically the entire army had heard Sadeas give Kaladin to the Stormfather for judgment.

  Gaz had come to see Kaladin, then had snorted to himself in amusement. He’d likely told his superiors that Kaladin would die. Men didn’t live long with wounds like those.

  Yet Kaladin hung on. Soldiers were going out of their way to try to get a peek at him. His survival was incredible. People were talking in camp. Given to the Stormfather for judgment, then spared. A miracle. Sadeas wouldn’t like that. How long would it be before one of the lighteyes decided to relieve their brightlord of the problem? Sadeas couldn’t take any overt action-not without losing a great deal of credibility-but a quiet poisoning or suffocation would abbreviate the embarrassment.

  So Bridge Four kept Kaladin as far from outside eyes as possible. And they always left someone with him. Always.

  Storming man, Teft thought, kneeling beside the feverish patient in his tousled blankets, eyes closed, face sweaty, body bound with a frightful number of bandages. Most were stained red. They didn’t have the money to change them often.

  Skar kept watch currently. The short, strong-faced man sat at Kaladin’s feet.

  “How is he?” Teft asked.

  Skar spoke softly. “He seems to be getting worse, Teft. I heard him mumble about dark shapes, thrashing and telling them to keep back. He opened his eyes. He didn’t seem to see me, but he saw something. I swear it.”

  Deathspren, Teft thought, feeling a chill. Kelek preserve us.

  “I’ll take a turn,” Teft said, sitting. “You go get something to eat.”

  Skar stood, looking pale. It would crush the others’ spirit for Kaladin to survive the highstorm, then die of his wounds. Skar shuffled from the room, shoulders slumped.

  Teft watched Kaladin for a long while, trying to gather his thoughts, his emotions. “Why now?” he whispered. “Why here? After so many have watched and waited, you come here?”

  But of course, Teft was getting ahead of himself. He didn’t know for certain. He only had assumptions and hopes. No, not hopes-fears. He had rejected the Envisagers. And yet, here he was. He fished in his pocket and pulled out three small diamond spheres. It had been a long, long while since he’d saved anything of his wages, but he’d held on to these, thinking, worrying. They glowed with Stormlight in his hand.

  Did he really want to know?

  Gritting his teeth, Teft moved closer to Kaladin’s side, looking down at the unconscious man’s face. “You bastard,” he whispered. “You storming bastard. You took a bunch of hanged men and lifted them up just enough to breathe. Now you’re going to leave them? I won’t have it, you hear. I won’t.”

  He pressed the spheres into Kaladin’s hand, wrapping the limp fingers around them, then laying the hand on Kaladin
’s abdomen. Then Teft sat back on his heels. What would happen? All the Envisagers had were stories and legends. Fool’s tales, Teft had called them. Idle dreams.

  He waited. Of course, nothing happened. You’re as big a fool as any, Teft, he told himself. He reached for Kaladin’s hand. Those spheres would buy a few drinks.

  Kaladin gasped suddenly, drawing in a short, quick, powerful breath.

  The glow in his hand faded.

  Teft froze, eyes widening. Wisps of Light began to rise from Kaladin’s body. It was faint, but there was no mistaking that glowing white Stormlight streaming off his frame. It was as if Kaladin had been bathed in sudden heat, and his very skin steamed.

  Kaladin’s eyes snapped open, and they leaked light too, faintly colored amber. He gasped again loudly, and the trailing wisps of light began to twist around the exposed cuts on his chest. A few of them pulled together and knit themselves up.

  Then it was gone, the Light of those tiny chips expended. Kaladin’s eyes closed and he relaxed. His wounds were still bad, his fever still raging, but some color had returned to his skin. The puffy redness around several cuts had diminished.

  “My God,” Teft said, realizing he was trembling. “Almighty, cast from heaven to dwell in our hearts…It is true.” He bowed his head to the rock floor, squeezing his eyes shut, tears leaking from their corners.

  Why now? he thought again. Why here?

  And, in the name of all heaven, why me?

  He knelt for a hundred heartbeats, counting, thinking, worrying. Eventually, he pulled himself to his feet and retrieved the spheres-now dun-from Kaladin’s hand. He’d need to trade them for spheres with Light in them. Then he could return and let Kaladin drain those as well.

  He’d have to be careful. A few spheres each day, but not too many. If the boy healed too quickly, it would draw too much attention.

  And I need to tell the Envisagers, he thought. I need to…

  The Envisagers were gone. Dead, because of what he had done. If there were others, he had no idea how to locate them.