The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  He broke into a jog. Before long, he was sprinting.

  But if it wasn’t about him-if he wasn’t helping the bridgemen because he loathed failure, or because he feared the pain of watching them die- then it would be about them. About Rock’s affable gibes, about Moash’s intensity, about Teft’s earnest gruff ness or Peet’s quiet dependability. What would he do to protect them? Give up his illusions? His excuses?

  Seize whatever opportunity he could, no matter how it changed him? No matter how it unnerved him, or what burdens it represented?

  He dashed up the incline to the lumberyard.

  Bridge Four was making their evening stew, chatting and laughing. The nearly twenty wounded men from other crews sat eating gratefully. It was gratifying, how quickly they had lost their hollow-eyed expressions and begun laughing with the other men.

  The smell of spicy Horneater stew was thick in the air. Kaladin slowed his jog, coming to a stop beside the bridgemen. Several looked concerned as they saw him, panting and sweating. Syl landed on his shoulder.

  Kaladin sought out Teft. The aging bridgeman sat alone below the barrack’s eaves, staring down at the rock in front of him. He hadn’t noticed Kaladin yet. Kaladin gestured for the others to continue, then walked over to Teft. He squatted down before the man.

  Teft looked up in surprise. “Kaladin?”

  “What do you know?” Kaladin said quietly, intense. “And how do you know it?”

  “I-” Teft said. “When I was a youth, my family belonged to a secret sect that awaited the return of the Radiants. I quit when I was just a youth. I thought it was nonsense.”

  He was holding things back; Kaladin could tell from the hesitation in his voice.

  Responsibility. “How much do you know about what I can do?”

  “Not much,” Teft said. “Just legends and stories. Nobody really knows what the Radiants could do, lad.”

  Kaladin met his eyes, then smiled. “Well, we’re going to find out.”

  58

  The Journey

  “ReShephir, the Midnight Mother, giving birth to abominations with her essence so dark, so terrible, so consuming. She is here! She watches me die!”

  — Dated Shashabev, 1173, 8 seconds pre-death. Subject: a darkeyed dock-worker in his forties, father of three.

  “I have a serious loathing of being wrong.” Adolin reclined in his chair, one hand resting leisurely on the crystal-topped table, the other swirling wine in his cup. Yellow wine. He wasn’t on duty today, so he could indulge just a tad.

  Wind ruffled his hair; he was sitting with a group of other young lighteyes at the outdoor tables of an Outer Market wineshop. The Outer Market was a collection of buildings that had grown up near the king’s palace, outside the warcamps. An eclectic mix of people passed on the street below their terraced seating.

  “I should think that everyone shares your dislike, Adolin,” Jakamav said, leaning with both elbows on the table. He was a sturdy man, a lighteyes of the third dahn from Highprince Roion’s camp. “Who likes being wrong?”

  “I’ve known a number of people who prefer it,” Adolin said thoughtfully. “Of course, they don’t admit that fact. But what else could one presume from the frequency of their error?”

  Inkima-Jakamav’s accompaniment for the afternoon-gave a tinkling laugh. She was a plump thing with light yellow eyes who dyed her hair black. She wore a red dress. The color did not look good on her.

  Danlan was also there, of course. She sat on a chair beside Adolin, keeping proper distance, though she’d occasionally touch his arm with her freehand. Her wine was violet. She did like her wine, though she seemed to match it to her outfits. A curious trait. Adolin smiled. She looked extremely fetching, with that long neck and graceful build wrapped in a sleek dress. She didn’t dye her hair, though it was mostly auburn. There was nothing wrong with light hair. In fact, why was it that they all were so fond of dark hair, when light eyes were the ideal?

  Stop it, Adolin told himself. You’ll end up brooding as much as Father.

  The other two-Toral and his companion Eshava-were both lighteyes from Highprince Aladar’s camp. House Kholin was currently out of favor, but Adolin had acquaintances or friends in nearly all of the warcamps.

  “Wrongness can be amusing,” Toral said. “It keeps life interesting. If we were all right all the time, where would that leave us?”

  “My dear,” his companion said. “Didn’t you once claim to me that you were nearly always right?”

  “Yes,” Toral said. “And so if everyone were like me, who would I make sport of? I’d dread being made so mundane by everyone else’s competence.”

  Adolin smiled, taking a drink of his wine. He had a formal duel in the arena today, and he’d found that a cup of yellow beforehand helped him relax. “Well, you needn’t worry about me being right too often, Toral. I was sure Sadeas would move against my father. It doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Positioning, perhaps?” Toral said. He was a keen fellow, known for his refined sense of taste. Adolin always wanted him along when trying wines. “He wants to look strong.”

  “He was strong,” Adolin said. “He gains no more by not moving against us.”

  “Now,” Danlan said, voice soft with a breathless quality to it, “I know that I’m quite new to the warcamps, and my assessment is bound to reflect my ignorance, but-”

  “You always say that, you know,” Adolin said idly. He liked her voice quite a bit.

  “I always say what?”

  “That you’re ignorant,” Adolin said. “However, you’re anything but. You’re among the most clever women I’ve met.”

  She hesitated, looking oddly annoyed for a moment. Then she smiled. “You shouldn’t say such things-Adolin-when a woman is attempting humility.”

  “Oh, right. Humility. I’ve forgotten that existed.”

  “Too much time around Sadeas’s lighteyes?” Jakamav said, eliciting another tinkling laugh from Inkima.

  “Anyway,” Adolin said. “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

  “I was saying,” Danlan said, “that I doubt Sadeas would wish to start a war. Moving against your father in such an obvious way would have done that, wouldn’t it?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Adolin said.

  “So perhaps that is why he held himself back.”

  “I don’t know,” Toral said. “He could have cast shame on your family without attacking you-he could have implied, for instance, that you’d been negligent and foolish in not protecting the king, but that you hadn’t been behind the assassination attempt.”

  Adolin nodded.

  “That still could have started a war,” Danlan said.

  “Perhaps,” Toral said. “But you have to admit, Adolin, that the Blackthorn’s reputation is a little less than… impressive of late.”

  “And what does that mean?” Adolin snapped.

  “Oh, Adolin,” Toral said waving a hand and raising his cup for some more wine. “Don’t be tiresome. You know what I’m saying, and you also know I mean no insult by it. Where is that serving woman?”

  “One would think,” Jakamav added, “that after six years out here, we could get a decent winehouse.”

  Inkima laughed at that too. She was really getting annoying.

  “My father’s reputation is sound,” Adolin said. “Or have you not been paying attention to our victories lately?”

  “Achieved with Sadeas’s help,” Jakamav said.

  “Achieved nonetheless,” Adolin said. “In the last few months, my father’s saved not only Sadeas’s life, but that of the king himself. He fights boldly. Surely you can see that previous rumors about him were absolutely unfounded.”

  “All right, all right,” Toral said. “No need to get upset, Adolin. We can all agree that your father is a wonderful man. But you were the one who complained to us that you wanted to change him.”

  Adolin studied his wine. Both of the other men at the table wore the sort of outfits Adolin’s father fr
owned upon. Short jackets over colorful silk shirts. Toral wore a thin yellow silk scarf at the neck and another around his right wrist. It was quite fashionable, and looked far more comfortable than Adolin’s uniform. Dalinar would have said that the outfits looked silly, but sometimes fashion was silly. Bold, different. There was something invigorating about dressing in a way that interested others, moving with the waves of style. Once, before joining his father at the war, Adolin had loved being able to design a look to match a given day. Now he had only two options: summer uniform coat or winter uniform coat.

  The serving maid finally arrived, bringing two carafes of wine, one yellow and one deep blue. Inkima giggled as Jakamav leaned over and whispered something in her ear.

  Adolin held up a hand to forestall the maid from filling his cup. “I’m not sure I want to see my father change. Not anymore.”

  Toral frowned. “Last week-”

  “I know,” Adolin said. “That was before I saw him rescue Sadeas. Every time I start to forget how amazing my father is, he does something to prove me one of the ten fools. It happened when Elhokar was in danger too. It’s like… my father only acts like that when he really cares about something.”

  “You imply that he doesn’t really care about the war, Adolin dear,” Danlan said.

  “No,” Adolin said. “Just that the lives of Elhokar and Sadeas might be more important than killing Parshendi.”

  The others took that for an explanation, moving on toward other topics. But Adolin found himself circling the thought. He felt unsettled lately. Being wrong about Sadeas was one cause; the chance that they might actually be able to prove the visions right or wrong was another.

  Adolin felt trapped. He’d pushed his father to confront his own sanity, and now-by what their last conversation had established-he had all but agreed to accept his father’s decision to step down if the visions proved false.

  Everyone hates being wrong, Adolin thought. Except my father said he’d rather be wrong, if it would be better for Alethkar. Adolin doubted many lighteyes would rather be proven mad than right.

  “Perhaps,” Eshava was saying. “But that doesn’t change all of his foolish restrictions. I wish he would step down.”

  Adolin started. “What? What was that?”

  Eshava glanced at him. “Nothing. Just seeing if you were attending the conversation, Adolin.”

  “No,” Adolin said. “Tell me what you were saying.”

  She shrugged, looking at Toral.

  Toral leaned forward. “You don’t think the warcamps are ignoring what happens to your father during highstorms, Adolin. Word is that he should abdicate because of it.”

  “That would be foolish,” Adolin said firmly. “Considering how much success he’s showing in battle.”

  “Stepping down would be far too much of an overreaction,” Danlan agreed. “Though, Adolin, I do wish you could get your father to relax all of these foolish restrictions our camp is under. You and the other Kholin men would be able to truly join society again.”

  “I’ve tried,” he said, checking the position of the sun. “Trust me. And, unfortunately, I have a duel to prepare for. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Some more of Sadeas’s sycophants?” Jakamav asked.

  “No,” Danlan said, smiling. “It’s Brightlord Resi. There’ve been some vocal provocations from Thanadal, and this might serve to shut his mouth.” She looked at Adolin fondly. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Thanks,” he said, rising, doing up the buttons on his coat. He kissed Danlan’s freehand, waved to the others, and trotted out onto the street.

  That was something of an abrupt departure for me, he thought. Will they see how uncomfortable the discussion made me? Probably not. They didn’t know him as Renarin did. Adolin liked to be familiar with a large number of people, but not terribly close with any of them. He didn’t even know Danlan that well yet. He would make his relationship with her last, though. He was tired of Renarin teasing him for jumping in and out of courtships. Danlan was very pretty; it seemed the courtship could work.

  He passed through the Outer Market, Toral’s words weighing on him. Adolin didn’t want to become highprince. He wasn’t ready. He liked dueling and chatting with his friends. Leading the army was one thing-but as highprince, he’d have to think of other things. Such as the future of the war on the Shattered Plains, or protecting and advising the king.

  That shouldn’t have to be our problem, he thought. But it was as his father always said. If they didn’t do it, who would?

  The Outer Market was far more disorganized than the markets inside Dalinar’s warcamp. Here, the ramshackle buildings-mostly built of stone blocks quarried from nearby-had grown up without any specific plan. A large number of the merchants were Thaylen, with their typical caps, vests, and long, wagging eyebrows.

  The busy market was one of the few places where soldiers from all ten warcamps mingled. In fact, that had become one of the main functions of the place; it was neutral ground where men and women from different warcamps could meet. It also provided a market that wasn’t heavily regulated, though Dalinar had stepped in to provide some rules once the marketplace had begun to show signs of lawlessness.

  Adolin nodded to a passing group of Kholin soldiers in blue, who saluted him. They were on patrol, halberds held at their shoulders, helms gleaming. Dalinar’s troops patrolled this place, and his scribes watched over it. All at his own cost.

  His father didn’t like the layout of the Outer Market or its lack of walls. He said that a raid could be catastrophic to it, that it violated the spirit of the Codes. But it had been years since the Parshendi had raided the Alethi side of the Plains. And if they did decide to strike at the warcamps, the scouts and guards would give ample warning.

  So what was the point of the Codes? Adolin’s father acted as if they were vitally important. Always be in uniform, always be armed, always stay sober. Be ever vigilant while under threat of attack. But there was no threat of attack.

  As he walked through the market, Adolin looked-really looked-for the first time and tried to see what it was his father was doing.

  He could pick out Dalinar’s officers easily. They wore their uniforms, as commanded. Blue coats and trousers with silver buttons, knots on the shoulders for rank. Officers who weren’t from Dalinar’s camp wore all kinds of clothing. It was difficult to pick them out from the merchants and other wealthy civilians.

  But that doesn’t matter, Adolin told himself again. Because we’re not going to be attacked.

  He frowned, passing a group of lighteyes lounging outside another winehouse. Much as he’d just been doing. Their clothing-indeed, their postures and mannerisms-made them look like they cared only about their revelry. Adolin found himself annoyed. There was a war going on. Almost every day, soldiers died. They did so while lighteyes drank and chatted.

  Maybe the Codes weren’t just about protecting against the Parshendi. Maybe they were about something more-about giving the men commanders they could respect and rely on. About treating war with the gravity it deserved. Maybe it was about not turning a war zone into a festival. The common men had to remain on watch, vigilant. Therefore, Adolin and Dalinar did the same.

  Adolin hesitated in the street. Nobody cursed at him or called for him to move-they could see his rank. They just went around him.

  I think I see now, he thought. Why had it taken him so long?

  Disturbed, he hurried on his way toward the day’s match.

  “‘I walked from Abamabar to Urithiru,’” Dalinar said, quoting from memory. “‘In this, the metaphor and experience are one, inseparable to me like my mind and memory. One contains the other, and though I can explain one to you, the other is only for me.’”

  Sadeas-sitting beside him-raised an eyebrow. Elhokar sat on Dalinar’s other side, wearing his Shardplate. He’d taken to that more and more, sure that assassins were thirsting for his life. Together, they watched the men dueling down below, at the bottom of a small cra
ter that Elhokar had designated the warcamps’ dueling arena. The rocky shelves running around the inside of the ten-foot-tall wall made excellent seating platforms.

  Adolin’s duel hadn’t started yet, and the men who fought right now were lighteyes, but not Shardbearers. Their dull-edged dueling swords were crusted with a white, chalklike substance. When one achieved a hit on the other’s padded armor, it would leave a visible mark.

  “So, wait,” Sadeas said to him. “This man who wrote the book…”

  “Nohadon is his holy name. Others call him Bajerden, though we’re not certain whether that was actually his real name or not.”

  “He decided to walk from where to where?”

  “Abamabar to Urithiru,” Dalinar said. “I think it must have been a great distance, from the way the story is told.”

  “Wasn’t he a king?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why-”

  “It’s confusing,” Dalinar said. “But listen. You’ll see.” He cleared his throat and continued. “‘I strode this insightful distance on my own, and forbade attendants. I had no steed beyond my well-worn sandals, no companion beside a stout staff to offer conversation with its beats against the stone. My mouth was to be my purse; I stuffed it not with gems, but with song. When singing for sustenance failed me, my arms worked well for cleaning a floor or hogpen, and often earned me a satisfactory reward.

  “‘Those dear to me took fright for my safety and, perhaps, my sanity. Kings, they explained, do not walk like beggars for hundreds of miles. My response was that if a beggar could manage the feat, then why not a king? Did they think me less capable than a beggar?

  “‘Sometimes I think that I am. The beggar knows much that the king can only guess. And yet who draws up the codes for begging ordinances? Often I wonder what my experience in life-my easy life following the Desolation, and my current level of comfort-has given me of any true experience to use in making laws. If we had to rely on what we knew, kings would only be of use in creating laws regarding the proper heating of tea and cushioning of thrones.’”