The Way of Kings

by Brandon Sanderson

  Gavilar had been very taken by the idea. He claimed it was a clever device, meant to force the highprinces to work together. Once, this system had forced them to submit to one another’s authority. Things hadn’t been done that way in centuries, ever since the fragmenting of Alethkar into ten autonomous princedoms.

  “Elhokar, what if you named me Highprince of War?” Dalinar asked.

  Elhokar didn’t laugh; that was a good sign. “I thought you and Sadeas decided that the others would revolt if we tried something like that.”

  “Perhaps I was wrong about that too.”

  Elhokar appeared to consider it. Finally, the king shook his head. “No. They barely accept my leadership. If I did something like this, they’d assassinate me.”

  “I’d protect you.”

  “Bah. You don’t even take the present threats on my life seriously.”

  Dalinar sighed. “Your Majesty, I do take threats to your life seriously. My scribes and attendants are looking into the strap.”

  “And what have they discovered?”

  “Well, so far we have nothing conclusive. Nobody has taken credit for trying to kill you, even in rumor. Nobody saw anything suspicious. But Adolin is speaking with leatherworkers. Perhaps he’ll bring something more substantial.”

  “It was cut, Uncle.”

  “We will see.”

  “You don’t believe me,” Elhokar said, face growing red. “You should be trying to find out what the assassins’ plan was, rather than pestering me with some arrogant quest to become overlord of the entire army!”

  Dalinar gritted his teeth. “I do this for you, Elhokar.”

  Elhokar met his eyes for a moment, and his blue eyes flashed with suspicion again, as they had the week before.

  Blood of my fathers! Dalinar thought. He’s getting worse.

  Elhokar’s expression softened a moment later, and he seemed to relax. Whatever he’d seen in Dalinar’s eyes had comforted him. “I know you try for the best, Uncle,” Elhokar said. “But you have to admit that you’ve been erratic lately. The way you react to storms, your infatuation with my father’s last words—”

  “I’m trying to understand him.”

  “He grew weak at the end,” Elhokar said. “Everyone knows it. I won’t repeat his mistakes, and you should avoid them as well—rather than listening to a book that claims that lighteyes should be the slaves of the darkeyes.”

  “That’s not what it says,” Dalinar said. “It has been misinterpreted. It’s mostly just a collection of stories which teach that a leader should serve those he leads.”

  “Bah. It was written by the Lost Radiants!”

  “They didn’t write it. It was their inspiration. Nohadon, an ordinary man, was its author.”

  Elhokar glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. See, it seemed to say. You defend it. “You are growing weak, Uncle. I will not exploit that weakness. But others will.”

  “I am not getting weak.” Yet again, Dalinar forced himself to be calm. “This conversation has gone off the path. The highprinces need a single leader to force them to work together. I vow that if you name me Highprince of War, I will see you protected.”

  “As you saw my father protected?”

  Dalinar’s mouth snapped shut.

  Elhokar turned away. “I should not have said that. It was uncalled for.”

  “No,” Dalinar said. “No, it was one of the truest things you have said to me, Elhokar. Perhaps you are right to distrust my protection.”

  Elhokar glanced at him, curious. “Why do you react that way?”

  “What way?”

  “Once, if someone had said that to you, you’d have summoned your Blade and demanded a duel! Now you agree with them instead.”

  “I—”

  “My father started refusing duels, near the end.” Elhokar tapped on the railing. “I see why you feel the need for a Highprince of War, and you may have a point. But the others very much like the present arrangement.”

  “Because it is comfortable to them. If we are going to win, we will need to upset them.” Dalinar stepped forward. “Elhokar, maybe it’s been long enough. Six years ago, naming a Highprince of War might well have been a mistake. But now? We know one another better, and we’ve been working united against the Parshendi. Perhaps it is time to take the next step.”

  “Perhaps,” the king said. “You think they are ready? I’ll let you prove it to me. If you can show me that they are willing to work with you, Uncle, then I’ll consider naming you Highprince of War. Is that satisfactory?”

  It was a solid compromise. “Very well.”

  “Good,” the king said, standing up. “Then let us part for now. It is growing late, and I have yet to hear what Ruthar wishes of me.”

  Dalinar nodded his farewell, walking back through the king’s chambers, Renarin trailing him.

  The more he considered, the more he felt that this was the right thing to do. Retreating would not work with the Alethi, particularly not with their current mind-set. But if he could shock them out of their complacency, force them to adopt a more aggressive strategy…

  He was still lost in thought considering that as they left the king’s palace and made their way down the ramps to where their horses waited. He climbed astride Gallant, nodding his thanks to the groom who had cared for the Ryshadium. The horse had recovered from his fall during the hunt, his leg solid and hale.

  It was a short distance back to Dalinar’s warcamp, and they rode in silence. Which of the highprinces should I approach first? Dalinar thought. Sadeas?

  No. No, he and Sadeas were already seen working together too often. If the other highprinces began to smell a stronger alliance, it would drive them to turn against him. Best that he approach less powerful highprinces first and see if he could get them to work with him in some way. A joint plateau assault, perhaps?

  He’d have to approach Sadeas eventually. He didn’t relish the thought. Things were always so much easier when the two of them could work at a safe distance from one another. He—

  “Father,” Renarin said. He sounded dismayed.

  Dalinar sat upright, looking around, hand going for his side sword even while he prepared to summon his Shardblade. Renarin pointed. Eastward. Stormward.

  The horizon was growing dark.

  “Was there supposed to be a highstorm today?” Dalinar asked, alarmed.

  “Elthebar said it was unlikely,” Renarin said. “But he’s been wrong before.”

  Everyone could be wrong about highstorms. They could be predicted, but it was never an exact science. Dalinar narrowed his eyes, heart thumping. Yes, he could sense the signs now. The dust picking up, the scents changing. It was evening, but there should still be more light left. Instead, it was rapidly growing darker and darker. The very air felt more frantic.

  “Should we go to Aladar’s camp?” Renarin said, pointing. They were nearest Highprince Aladar’s warcamp, and perhaps only a quarter-hour ride from the rim of Dalinar’s own.

  Aladar’s men would take him in. Nobody would forbid shelter to a highprince during a storm. But Dalinar shuddered, thinking of spending a highstorm trapped in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by another highprince’s attendants. They would see him during an episode. Once that happened, the rumors would spread like arrows above a battlefield.

  “We ride!” he called, kicking Gallant into motion. Renarin and the guardsmen fell in behind him, hooves a thunder to precurse the coming highstorm. Dalinar leaned low, tense. The grey sky grew clotted with dust and leaves blown ahead of the stormwall and the air grew dense with humid anticipation. The horizon burgeoned with thickening clouds. Dalinar and the others galloped past Aladar’s perimeter guards, who bustled with activity, holding their coats or cloaks against the wind.

  “Father?” Renarin called from behind. “Are you—”

  “We have time!” Dalinar shouted.

  They eventually reached the jagged wall of the Kholin warcamp. Here, the remaining soldiers wore blue and white
and saluted. Most had already retreated to their enclosures. He had to slow Gallant to get through the checkpoint. However, it would just be another short gallop to his quarters. He turned Gallant, preparing to go.

  “Father!” Renarin said, pointing eastward.

  The stormwall hung like a curtain in the air, speeding toward the camp. The massive sheet of rain was a silvery grey, the clouds above onyx black, lit from within by occasional flashes of lightning. The guards who had saluted him were hurrying to a nearby bunker.

  “We can make it,” Dalinar said. “We—”

  “Father!” Renarin said, riding up beside him and catching his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  The wind whipped at them, and Dalinar gritted his teeth, looking at his son. Renarin’s spectacled eyes were wide with concern.

  Dalinar glanced at the stormwall again. It was only moments away.

  He’s right.

  He handed Gallant’s reins to an anxious soldier, who took the reins of Renarin’s mount as well, and the two of them dismounted. The groom rushed away, towing the horses into a stone stable. Dalinar almost followed—there would be fewer people to watch him in a stable—but a nearby barrack had the door open, and those inside waved anxiously. That would be safer.

  Resigned, Dalinar joined Renarin, dashing to the stone-walled barrack. The soldiers made room for them; there was a group of servants packed inside as well. In Dalinar’s camp, no one was forced to weather the tempests in stormtents or flimsy wooden shacks, and nobody had to pay for protection inside stone structures.

  The occupants seemed shocked to see their highprince and his son step in; several paled as the door thumped shut. Their only light was from a few garnets mounted on the walls. Someone coughed, and outside a scattering of windblown rock chips sprayed against the building. Dalinar tried to ignore the uncomfortable eyes around him. Wind howled outside. Perhaps nothing would happen. Perhaps this time—

  The storm hit.

  It began.

  He holds the most frightening and terrible of all of the Shards. Ponder on that for a time, you old reptile, and tell me if your insistence on nonintervention holds firm. Because I assure you, Rayse will not be similarly inhibited.

  Dalinar blinked. The stuffy, dimly lit barrack was gone. Instead, he stood in darkness. The air was thick with the scent of dried grain, and when he reached out with his left hand, he felt a wooden wall. He was in a barn of some sort.

  The cool night was still and crisp; there was no sign of a storm. He felt carefully at his side. His side sword was gone, as was his uniform. Instead, he wore a homespun belted tunic and a pair of sandals. It was the type of clothing he’d seen depicted on ancient statues.

  Stormwinds, where have you sent me this time? Each of the visions was different. This would be the twelfth one he’d seen. Only twelve? he thought. It seemed like so many more, but this had only begun happening to him a few months ago.

  Something moved in the darkness. He flinched in surprise as something living pressed against him. He nearly struck it, but froze when he heard it whimper. He carefully lowered his arm, feeling the figure’s back. Slight and small—a child. She was quivering.

  “Father.” Her voice trembled. “Father, what is happening?” As usual, he was being seen as someone of this place and time. The girl clutched him, obviously terrified. It was too dark to see the fearspren he suspected were climbing up through the ground.

  Dalinar rested his hand on her back. “Hush. It will be all right.” It seemed the right thing to say.

  “Mother…”

  “She will be fine.”

  The girl huddled more closely against him in the black room. He remained still. Something felt wrong. The building creaked in the wind. It wasn’t well built; the plank beneath Dalinar’s hand was loose, and he was tempted to push it free so he could peek out. But the stillness, the terrified child…There was an oddly putrid scent in the air.

  Something scratched, ever so softly, at the barn’s far wall. Like a finger-nail being drawn across a wooden tabletop.

  The girl whimpered, and the scraping sound stopped. Dalinar held his breath, heart beating furiously. Instinctively, he held his hand out to summon his Shardblade, but nothing happened. It would never come during the visions.

  The far wall of the building exploded inward.

  Splintered wood flew through the darkness as a large shape burst in. Lit only by moonglow and starlight from outside, the black thing was bigger than an axehound. He couldn’t make out details, but it seemed to have an unnatural wrongness to its form.

  The girl screamed, and Dalinar cursed, grabbing her with one arm and rolling to the side as the black thing leaped for them. It nearly got the child, but Dalinar whipped her out of the creature’s path. Breathless with terror, her scream cut off.

  Dalinar spun, pushing the girl behind him. His side hit a stack of sacks filled with grain as he edged away. The barn fell silent. Salas’s violet light shone in the sky outside, but the small moon wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the barn’s interior, and the creature had moved into a shadowed recess. He couldn’t see much of it.

  It seemed part of the shadows. Dalinar tensed, fists forward. It made a soft wheezing noise, eerie and faintly reminiscent of rhythmic whispering.

  Breathing? Dalinar thought. No. It’s sniffing for us.

  The thing darted forward. Dalinar whipped a hand to the side and grabbed one of the grain sacks, pulling it in front of himself. The beast struck the sack, its teeth ripping into it, and Dalinar pulled, tearing the coarse fabric and flinging a fragrant cloud of dusty lavis grain into the air. Then he stepped to the side and kicked the beast as hard as he could.

  The creature felt too soft under his foot, as if he’d kicked a waterskin. The blow knocked it to the ground, and it made a hissing sound. Dalinar flung the bag and its remaining contents upward, filling the air with more dried lavis and dust.

  The beast scrambled to its feet and twisted around, smooth skin reflecting moonlight. It seemed disoriented. Whatever it was, it hunted by smell, and the dust in the air confused it. Dalinar grabbed the girl and threw her over his shoulder, then dashed past the confused creature, barreling through the hole in the broken wall.

  He burst out into violet moonlight. He was in a small lait—a wide rift in the stone with good enough drainage to avoid flooding and a high stone outcropping to break the highstorms. In this case, the eastern rock formation was shaped like an enormous wave, creating shelter for a small village.

  That explained the flimsiness of the barn. Lights flickered here and there across the hollow, indicating a settlement of several dozen homes. He was on the outskirts. There was a hogpen to Dalinar’s right, distant homes to his left, and just ahead—nestled against the rock hill—was a midsized farm house. It was built in an archaic style, with crem bricks for walls.

  His decision was easy. The thing had moved quickly, like a predator. Dalinar wouldn’t outrun it, so he charged toward the farm house. The sound of the beast breaking out through the barn wall came from behind. Dalinar reached the home, but the front door was barred. Dalinar cursed loudly, pounding on it.

  Claws scraped on stone from behind as the thing bounded toward them. Dalinar threw his shoulder against the door just as it opened.

  He stumbled inside, dropping the girl to the floor as he found his balance. A middle-aged woman stood inside; violet moonlight revealed that she had thick curly hair and a wide-eyed terrified expression. She slammed the door closed behind him, then barred it.

  “Praise the Heralds,” she exclaimed, scooping up the girl. “You found her, Heb. Bless you.”

  Dalinar sidled up to the glassless window, looking out. The shutter appeared to be broken loose, making the window impossible to latch closed.

  He couldn’t see the creature. He glanced back over his shoulder. The building’s floor was simple stone and there was no second story. A fireless brick hearth was set on one side, with a rough-cast iron pot hanging above it. It all looked so pri
mitive. What year was this?

  It’s just a vision, he thought. A waking dream.

  Why did it feel so real, then?

  He looked back out the window. It was silent outside. A twin row of rockbuds grew on the right side of the yard, probably curnips or some other kind of vegetable. Moonlight reflected off the smooth ground. Where was the creature? Had it—

  Something slick-skinned and black leapt up from below and crashed against the window. It shattered the frame, and Dalinar cursed, falling as the thing landed on him. Something sharp slashed his face, cutting open his cheek, spilling blood across his skin.

  The girl screamed again.

  “Light!” Dalinar bellowed. “Get me light!” He slammed his fist into the side of the creature’s too-soft head, using his other arm to push back a clawed paw. His cheek burned with pain, and something raked his side, slashing his tunic and cutting his skin.

  With a heave he threw the creature off him. It crashed against the wall, and he rolled to his feet, gasping. As the beast righted itself in the dark room, Dalinar scrambled away, old instincts kicking in, pain evaporating as the battle Thrill surged through him. He needed a weapon! A stool or a table leg. The room was so—

  Light flickered on as the woman uncovered a lit pottery lamp. The primitive thing used oil, not Stormlight, but was more than enough to illuminate her terrified face and the girl clinging to her robelike dress. The room had a low table and a pair of stools, but his eyes were drawn to the small hearth.

  There, gleaming like one of the Honorblades of ancient lore, was a simple iron fire poker. It leaned against the stone hearth, tip white with ash. Dalinar lunged forward, snatching it in one hand, twirling it to feel out its balance. He had been trained in classical Windstance, but he fell into Smokestance instead, as it was better with an imperfect weapon. One foot forward, one foot behind, sword—or, in this case, poker—held forward with the tip toward his opponent’s heart.

  Only years of training allowed him to maintain his stance as he saw what he was facing. The creature’s smooth, dark-as-midnight skin reflected light like a pool of tar. It had no visible eyes and its black, knifelike teeth bristled in a head set on a sinuous, boneless neck. The six legs were slender and bent at the sides, appearing far too thin to bear the weight of the fluid, inklike body.