The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Fluke.”

  “I’ll judge that,” Kaladin said. “Teft, we’re all broken, in one way or another. Otherwise we wouldn’t be bridgemen. I’ve failed. My own brother died because of me.”

  “So why keep caring?”

  “It’s either that or give up and die.”

  “And if death is better?”

  It came back to this problem. This was why the bridgemen didn’t care if he helped the wounded or not.

  “Death isn’t better,” Kaladin said, looking Teft in the eyes. “Oh, it’s easy to say that now. But when you stand on the ledge and look down into that dark, endless pit, you change your mind. Just like Hobber did. Just like I’ve done.” He hesitated, seeing something in the older man’s eyes. “I think you’ve seen it too.”

  “Aye,” Teft said softly. “Aye, I have.”

  “So, are you with us in this thing?” Rock said, squatting down.

  Us? Kaladin thought, smiling faintly.

  Teft looked back and forth between the two of them. “I get to keep my food?”

  “Yes,” Kaladin said.

  Teft shrugged. “All right then, I guess. Can’t be any harder than sitting here and having a staring contest with mortality.”

  Kaladin held out a hand. Teft hesitated, then took it.

  Rock held out a hand. “Rock.”

  Teft looked at him, finished shaking Kaladin’s hand, then took Rock’s. “I’m Teft.”

  Stormfather, Kaladin thought. I’d forgotten that most of them don’t even bother to learn each other’s names.

  “What kind of name is Rock?” Teft asked, releasing the hand.

  “Is a stupid one,” Rock said with an even face. “But at least it has meaning. Does your name mean anything?”

  “I guess not,” Teft said, rubbing his bearded chin.

  “Rock, this is not my real name,” the Horneater admitted. “Is just what lowlanders can pronounce.”

  “What’s your real name, then?” Teft asked.

  “You won’t be able to say it.”

  Teft raised an eyebrow.

  “Numuhukumakiaki’aialunamor,” Rock said.

  Teft hesitated, then smiled. “Well, I guess in that case, Rock will do just fine.”

  Rock laughed, settling down. “Our bridgeleader has a plan. Something glorious and daring. Has something to do with spending our afternoon moving stones in the heat.”

  Kaladin smiled, leaning forward. “We need to gather a certain kind of plant. A reed that grows in small patches outside the camp….”

  In case you have turned a blind eye to that disaster, know that Aona and Skai are both dead, and that which they held has been Splintered. Presumably to prevent anyone from rising up to challenge Rayse.

  Two days after the incident with the highstorm, Dalinar walked with his sons, crossing the rocky ground toward the king’s feasting basin.

  Dalinar’s stormwardens projected another few weeks of spring, followed by a return to summer. Hopefully it wouldn’t turn to winter instead.

  “I’ve been to three more leatherworkers,” Adolin said softly. “They have different opinions. It seems that even before the strap was cut—if it was cut—it was worn, so that’s interfering with things. The best consensus has been that the strap was sliced, but not necessarily by a knife. It could have just been natural wear-and-tear.”

  Dalinar nodded. “That’s the only evidence that even hints there might be something odd about the girth breaking.”

  “So we admit that this was just a result of the king’s paranoia.”

  “I’ll talk to Elhokar,” Dalinar decided. “Let him know we’ve run into a wall and see if there are any other avenues he’d like us to pursue.”

  “That’ll do.” Adolin seemed to grow hesitant about something. “Father. Do you want to talk about what happened during the storm?”

  “It was nothing that hasn’t happened before.”

  “But—”

  “Enjoy the evening, Adolin,” Dalinar said firmly. “I’m all right. Perhaps it’s good for the men to see what is happening. Hiding it has only inspired rumors, some of them even worse than the truth.”

  Adolin sighed, but nodded.

  The king’s feasts were always outdoors, at the foot of Elhokar’s palace hill. If the stormwardens warned of a highstorm—or if more mundane weather turned bad—then the feast was canceled. Dalinar was glad for the outdoor location. Even with ornamentation, Soulcast buildings felt like caverns.

  The feast basin had been flooded, turning it into a shallow artificial lake. Circular dining platforms rose like small stone islands in the water. The elaborate miniature landscape had been fabricated by the king’s Soulcasters, who had diverted the water from a nearby stream. It reminds me of Sela Tales, Dalinar thought as he crossed the first bridge. He’d visited that western region of Roshar during his youth. And the Purelake.

  There were five islands, and the railings of the bridges connecting them were done in scrollwork so fine that after each feast, the railings had to be stowed away lest a highstorm ruin them. Tonight, flowers floated in the slow current. Periodically, a miniature boat—only a handspan wide—sailed past, bearing an infused gemstone.

  Dalinar, Renarin, and Adolin stepped onto the first dining platform. “One cup of blue,” Dalinar said to his sons. “After that, keep to the orange.”

  Adolin sighed audibly. “Couldn’t we, just this once—”

  “So long as you are of my house, you follow the Codes. My will is firm, Adolin.”

  “Fine,” Adolin said. “Come on, Renarin.” The two broke off from Dalinar to remain on the first platform, where the younger lighteyes congregated.

  Dalinar crossed to the next island. This middle one was for the lesser lighteyes. To its left and right lay the segregated dining islands—men’s island on the right, women’s island on the left. On the three central ones, however, the genders mingled.

  Around him, the favored invitees took advantage of their king’s hospitality. Soulcast food was inherently bland, but the king’s lavish feasts always served imported spices and exotic meats. Dalinar could smell roasting pork on the air, and even chickens. It had been a long time since he’d been served meat from one of the strange Shin flying creatures.

  A darkeyed servant passed, wearing a gauzy red robe and carrying a tray of orange crab legs. Dalinar continued across the island, weaving around groups of revelers. Most drank violet wine, the most intoxicating and flavorful of the colors. Almost no one was in battle attire. A few men wore tight, waist-length jackets, but many had dropped all pretense, choosing instead loose silk shirts with ruffled cuffs worn with matching slippers. The rich material glistened in the lamplight.

  These creatures of fashion shot glances at Dalinar, appraising him, weighing him. He could remember a time when he would have been swarmed by friends, acquaintances—and yes, even sycophants—at a feast like this. Now, none approached him, though they gave way before him. Elhokar might think his uncle was growing weak, but his reputation quelled most lesser lighteyes.

  He soon approached the bridge to the final island—the king’s island. Pole-mounted gem lamps ringed it, glowing with blue Stormlight, and a firepit dominated the center of the platform. Deep red coals simmered in its bowels, radiating warmth. Elhokar sat at his table just behind the firepit, and several highprinces ate with him. Tables along the sides of the platform were occupied by male or female diners—never both at the same.

  Wit sat on a raised stool at the end of the bridge leading onto the island. Wit actually dressed as a lighteyes should—he wore a stiff black uniform, silver sword at his waist. Dalinar shook his head at the irony.

  Wit was insulting each person as they stepped onto the island. “Brightness Marakal! What a disaster that hairstyle is; how brave of you to show it to the world. Brightlord Marakal, I wish you’d warned us you were going to attend; I’d have forgone supper. I do so hate being sick after a full meal. Brightlord Cadilar! How good it is to see you. Your face
reminds me of someone dear to me.”

  “Really?” wizened Cadilar said, hesitating.

  “Yes,” Wit said, waving him on, “my horse. Ah, Brightlord Neteb, you smell unique today—did you attack a wet whitespine, or did one just sneeze on you? Lady Alami! No, please, don’t speak—it’s much easier to maintain my illusions regarding your intelligence that way. And Brightlord Dalinar.” Wit nodded to Dalinar as he passed. “Ah, my dear Brightlord Taselin. Still engaged in your experiment to prove a maximum threshold of human idiocy? Good for you! Very empirical of you.”

  Dalinar hesitated beside Wit’s chair as Taselin waddled by with a huff. “Wit,” Dalinar said, “do you have to?”

  “Two what, Dalinar?” Wit said, eyes twinkling. “Eyes, hands, or spheres? I’d lend you one of the first, but—by definition—a man can only have one I, and if it is given away, who would be Wit then? I’d lend you one of the second, but I fear my simple hands have been digging in the muck far too often to suit one such as you. And if I gave you one of my spheres, what would I spend the remaining one on? I’m quite attached to both of my spheres, you see.” He hesitated. “Or, well, you can’t see. Would you like to?” He stood up off his chair and reached for his belt.

  “Wit,” Dalinar said dryly.

  Wit laughed, clapping Dalinar on the arm. “I’m sorry. This lot brings out the basest humor in me. Perhaps it’s that muck I spoke of earlier. I do try so hard to be elevated in my loathing of them, but they make it difficult.”

  “Care for yourself, Wit,” Dalinar said. “This lot won’t suffer you forever. I wouldn’t see you dead by their knives; I see a fine man within you.”

  “Yes,” Wit said, scanning the platform. “He tasted quite delicious. Dalinar, I fear I’m not the one who needs that warning. Speak your fears at a mirror a few times when you get home tonight. There are rumors about.”

  “Rumors?”

  “Yes. Terrible things. Grow on men like warts.”

  “Tumors?”

  “Both. Look, there is talk about you.”

  “There is always talk about me.”

  “This is worse than most,” Wit said, meeting his eyes. “Did you really speak of abandoning the Vengeance Pact?”

  Dalinar took a deep breath. “That was between me and the king.”

  “Well, he must have spoken of it to others. This lot are cowards—and no doubt that makes them feel like experts on the subject, for they’ve certainly been calling you that a great deal lately.”

  “Stormfather!”

  “No, I’m Wit. But I understand how easy a mistake that is to make.”

  “Because you blow so much air,” Dalinar growled, “or because you make so much noise?”

  A wide smile split Wit’s face. “Why, Dalinar! I’m impressed! Maybe I should make you Wit! Then I could be a highprince instead.” He stopped. “No, that would be bad. I’d go mad after a mere second of listening to them, then would likely slaughter the lot. Perhaps appoint cremlings in their places. The kingdom would undoubtedly fare better.”

  Dalinar turned to go. “Thank you for the warning.”

  Wit sat back down on his stool as Dalinar walked away. “You’re welcome. Ah, Brightlord Habatab! How thoughtful of you to wear a red shirt with a sunburn like that! If you continue to make my job this easy, I fear my mind shall become as dull as Brightlord Tumul’s! Oh, Brightlord Tumul! How unexpected it is to see you standing there! I didn’t mean to insult your stupidity. Really, it’s quite spectacular and worthy of much praise. Lord Yonatan and Lady Meirav, I’ll forgo an insult for you this once on account of your recent wedding, though I do find your hat quite impressive, Yonatan. I trust it is convenient to wear on your head something that doubles as a tent at night. Ah, and is that Lady Navani behind you? How long have you been back at the Plains and how did I not notice the smell?”

  Dalinar froze. What?

  “Obviously your own stench overpowered mine, Wit,” a warm feminine voice said. “Has no one done my son a service and assassinated you yet?”

  “No, no assassins yet,” Wit said, amused. “I guess I’ve already got too much ass sass of my own.”

  Dalinar turned with shock. Navani, the king’s mother, was a stately woman with intricately woven black hair. And she was not supposed to be here.

  “Oh really, Wit,” she said. “I thought that kind of humor was beneath you.”

  “So are you, technically,” Wit said, smiling, from atop his high-legged stool.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Unfortunately, Brightness,” Wit replied with a sigh, “I’ve taken to framing my insults in terms this lot will understand. If it will please you, I shall attempt to improve my diction to more elevated terms.” He paused. “I say, do you know any words that rhyme with bescumber?”

  Navani just turned her head and looked at Dalinar with a pair of light violet eyes. She wore an elegant dress, its shimmering red surface unbroken by embroidery. The gems in her hair—which was streaked with a few lines of grey—were red as well. The king’s mother was known as one of the most beautiful women in Alethkar, though Dalinar had always found that description inadequate, for surely there wasn’t a woman on all of Roshar to match her beauty.

  Fool, he thought, tearing his eyes away from her. Your brother’s widow. With Gavilar dead, Navani was now to be treated as Dalinar’s sister. Besides, what of his own wife? Dead these ten years, wiped by his foolishness from his mind. Even if he couldn’t remember her, he should honor her.

  Why had Navani returned? As women called out greetings to her, Dalinar hurriedly made his way over to the king’s table. He sat down; a servant arrived in moments with a plate for him—they knew his preferences.

  It was steaming peppered chicken, cut in medallions and laid atop fried round slices of tenem, a soft, light orange vegetable. Dalinar grabbed a piece of flatbread and slipped his dining knife from the sheath on his right calf. So long as he was eating, it would be a breach of etiquette for Navani to approach him.

  The food was good. It always was at these feasts of Elhokar’s—in that, the son was like the father. Elhokar nodded to Dalinar from the end of the table, then continued his conversation with Sadeas. Highprince Roion sat a few seats down from him. Dalinar had an appointment with him in a few days, the first of the highprinces he’d approach and try to convince to work with him on a joint plateau assault.

  No other highprinces came to sit near Dalinar. Only they—and people with specific invitations—could sit at the king’s table. One man lucky enough to receive such an invitation sat on Elhokar’s left, obviously uncertain if he should join in the conversation or not.

  Water gurgled in the stream behind Dalinar. Before him, the festivities continued. It was a time for relaxation, but the Alethi were a reserved people, at least when compared with more passionate folk like the Horneaters or the Reshi. Still, his people seemed to have grown more opulent and self-indulgent since his childhood. Wine flowed freely and foods sizzled fragrantly. On the first island, several young men had stepped into a sparring ring for a friendly duel. Young men at a feast often found reason to remove their coats and show off their swordsmanship.

  The women were more modest with their displays, but they engaged in them as well. On Dalinar’s own island, several women had set up easels where they were sketching, painting, or doing calligraphy. As always, they kept their left hands shrouded in their sleeves, delicately creating art with the right. They sat on high stools, the kind that Wit had been using—in fact, Wit had probably stolen one for his little performance. A few of them attracted creationspren, the tiny shapes rolling across the tops of their easels or tables.

  Navani had gathered a group of important lighteyed women to a table. A servant passed by in front of Dalinar, bringing the women some food. It appeared to also have been made with the exotic chicken, but had been mixed with steamed methi fruit and covered in a reddish-brown sauce. As a boy, Dalinar had secretly tried women’s food out of curiosity. He’d found it distastef
ully sweet.

  Navani placed something on her table, a device of polished brass about the size of a fist, with a large, infused ruby at its center. The red Stormlight lit the entire table, throwing shadows down the white tablecloth. Navani picked up the device, rotating it to show her dinner companions its leglike protrusions. Turned that way, it looked vaguely crustacean.

  I’ve never seen a fabrial like that before. Dalinar looked up at her face, admiring the contours of her cheek. Navani was a renowned artifabrian. Perhaps this device was—

  Navani glanced at him, and Dalinar froze. She flashed the briefest of smiles at him, covert and knowing, then turned away before he could react. Storming woman! he thought, pointedly turning his attention to his meal.

  He was hungry, and got so involved in his food that he almost didn’t notice Adolin approaching. The blond youth saluted Elhokar, then hurried to take one of the vacant seats beside Dalinar. “Father,” Adolin said in a hushed tone, “have you heard what they’re saying?”

  “About what?”

  “About you! I’ve fought three duels so far against men who described you—and our house—as cowards. They’re saying you asked the king to abandon the Vengeance Pact!”

  Dalinar gripped the table and nearly rose to his feet. But he stopped himself. “Let them speak if they wish,” he said, turning back to his meal, stabbing a chunk of peppered chicken with his knife and raising it to his lips.

  “Did you really do it?” Adolin asked. “Is that what you talked about at the meeting with the king two days back?”

  “It is,” Dalinar admitted.

  That elicited a groan from Adolin. “I was worried already. When I—”

  “Adolin,” Dalinar interjected. “Do you trust me?”

  Adolin looked at him, the youth’s eyes wide, honest, but pained. “I want to. Storms, Father. I really want to.”

  “What I am doing is important. It must be done.”

  Adolin leaned in, speaking softly. “And what if they are delusions? What if you’re just…getting old.”