The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  They sat like that for some time, letting rainwater soak them. Kaladin kept searching those grey clouds, wondering what it was that Tien found so interesting in them. Eventually, he heard splashing below, and Lirin’s face appeared at the side of the house.

  “What in the…” he said. “All three of you? What are you doing up here?”

  “Feasting,” Kaladin’s mother said nonchalantly.

  “On what?”

  “On irregularity, dear,” she said.

  Lirin sighed. “Dear, you can be very odd, you know.”

  “And didn’t I just say that?”

  “Point. Well, come on. There’s a gathering in the square.”

  Hesina frowned. She rose and walked down the slope of the roof. Kaladin glanced at Tien, and the two of them stood. Kaladin stuffed the wooden horse in his pocket and picked his way down, careful on the slick rock, his shoes squishing. Cool water ran down Kaladin’s cheeks as he stepped off onto the ground.

  They followed Lirin toward the square. Kaladin’s father looked worried, and he walked with the beaten-down slouch he was prone to lately. Maybe it was an affectation to fool Roshone, but Kaladin suspected there was some truth to it. His father didn’t like having to give up those spheres, even if it was part of a ruse. It was too much like giving in.

  Ahead, a crowd was gathering at the town square, everyone holding umbrellas or wearing cloaks.

  “What is it, Lirin?” Hesina asked, sounding anxious.

  “Roshone is going to put in an appearance,” Lirin said. “He asked Waber to gather everyone. Full town meeting.”

  “In the rain?” Kaladin asked. “Couldn’t he have waited for Lightday?”

  Lirin didn’t reply. The family walked in silence, even Tien growing solemn. They passed some rainspren standing in puddles, glowing with a faint blue light, shaped like ankle-high melting candles with no flame. They rarely appeared except during the Weeping. They were said to be the souls of raindrops, glowing blue rods, seeming to melt but never growing smaller, a single blue eye at their tops.

  The townspeople were mostly assembled, gossiping in the rain, by the time Kaladin’s family arrived. Jost and Naget were there, though neither waved to Kaladin; it had been years since they’d been anything resembling friends. Kaladin shivered. His parents called this town home, and his father refused to leave, but it felt less and less like “home” by the day.

  I’ll be leaving it soon, he thought, eager to walk out of Hearthstone and leave these small-minded people behind. To go to a place where lighteyes were men and women of honor and beauty, worthy of the high station given them by the Almighty.

  Roshone’s carriage approached. It had lost much of its luster during his years in Hearthstone, the golden paint flaking off, the dark wood chipped by road gravel. As the carriage pulled into the square, Waber and his boys finally got a small canopy erected. The rain had strengthened, and drops hit the cloth with a hollow drumming sound.

  The air smelled different with all of these people around. Up on the roof, it had been fresh and clean. Now it seemed muggy and humid. The carriage door opened. Roshone had gained more weight, and his lighteyes’s suit had been retailored to fit his increased girth. He wore a wooden peg on his right stump, hidden by the cuff of his trouser, and his gait was stiff as he climbed out of the carriage and ducked beneath the canopy, grumbling.

  He hardly seemed the same person, with that beard and wet, stringy hair. But his eyes, they were the same. More beady now because of the fuller cheeks, but still seething as he studied the crowd. As if he had been hit with a rock when he wasn’t looking, and now searched for the culprit.

  Was Laral inside the carriage? Someone else moved inside, climbing out, but it turned out to be a lean man with a clean-shaven face and light tan eyes. The dignified man wore a neatly pressed, green formal military uniform and had a sword at his hip. Highmarshal Amaram? He certainly looked impressive, with that strong figure and square face. The difference between him and Roshone was striking.

  Finally, Laral did appear, wearing a light yellow dress of an antique fashion, with a flaring skirt and thick bodice. She glanced up at the rain, then waited for a footman to hurry over with an umbrella. Kaladin felt his heart thumping. They hadn’t spoken since the day she’d humiliated him in Roshone’s mansion. And yet, she was gorgeous. As she had grown through her adolescence, she had gotten prettier and prettier. Some might find that dark hair sprinkled with foreigner blond to be unappealing for its indication of mixed blood, but to Kaladin it was alluring.

  Beside Kaladin, his father stiffened, cursing softly.

  “What?” Tien asked from beside Kaladin, craning to see.

  “Laral,” Kaladin’s mother said. “She’s wearing a bride’s prayer on her sleeve.”

  Kaladin started, seeing the white cloth with its blue glyphpair sewn onto the sleeve of her dress. She’d burn it when the engagement was formally announced.

  But…who? Rillir was dead!

  “I’d heard rumors of this,” Kaladin’s father said. “It appears Roshone wasn’t willing to part with the connections she offers.”

  “Him?” Kaladin asked, stunned. Roshone himself was marrying her? Others in the crowd had begun speaking as they noticed the prayer.

  “Lighteyes marry much younger women all the time,” Kaladin’s mother said. “For them, marriages are often about securing house loyalty.”

  “Him?” Kaladin asked again, incredulous, stepping forward. “We have to stop it. We have to—”

  “Kaladin,” his father said sharply.

  “But—”

  “It is their affair, not ours.”

  Kaladin fell silent, feeling the larger raindrops hit his head, the smaller ones blowing by as mist. The water ran through the square and pooled in depressions. Near Kaladin, a rainspren sprang up, forming as if out of the water. It stared upward, unblinking.

  Roshone leaned on his cane and nodded to Natir, his steward. The man was accompanied by his wife, a stern-looking woman named Alaxia. Natir clapped his slender hands to quiet the crowd, and soon the only sound was that of the soft rain.

  “Brightlord Amaram,” Roshone said, nodding to the lighteyed man in the uniform, “is absendiar highmarshal of our princedom. He is in command of defending our borders while the king and Brightlord Sadeas are away.”

  Kaladin nodded. Everyone knew of Amaram. He was far more important than most military men who passed through Hearthstone.

  Amaram stepped forward to speak.

  “You have a fine town here,” Amaram said to the gathered darkeyes. He had a strong, deep voice. “Thank you for hosting me.”

  Kaladin frowned, glancing at the other townspeople. They seemed as confused as he by the statement.

  “Normally,” Amaram said, “I would leave this task to one of my subordinate officers. But as I was visiting with my cousin, I decided to come down in person. It is not so onerous a task that I need delegate it.”

  “Excuse me, Brightlord,” said Callins, one of the farmers. “But what duty is that?”

  “Why, recruitment, good farmer,” Amaram said, nodding to Alaxia, who stepped forward with a sheet of paper strapped to a board. “The king took most of our armies with him on his quest to fulfill the Vengeance Pact. My forces are undermanned, and it has become necessary to recruit young men from each town or village we pass. I do this with volunteers whenever possible.”

  The townspeople fell still. Boys talked of running off to the army, but few of them would actually do it. Hearthstone’s duty was to provide food.

  “My fighting is not as glorious as the war for vengeance,” Amaram said, “but it is our sacred duty to defend our lands. This tour will be for four years, and upon completing your duty, you will receive a war bonus equal to one-tenth your total wages. You may then return, or you may sign up for further duty. Distinguish yourself and rise to a high rank, and it could mean an increase of one nahn for you and your children. Are there any volunteers?”

  “I’l
l go,” Jost said, stepping forward.

  “Me too,” Abry added.

  “Jost!” Jost’s mother said, grabbing his arm. “The crops—”

  “Your crops are important, darkwoman,” Amaram said, “but not nearly as important as the defense of our people. The king sends back riches from the plundered Plains, and the gemstones he has captured can provide food for Alethkar in emergency. You two are both welcome. Are there any others?”

  Three more boys from the town stepped forward, and one older man—Harl, who had lost his wife to the scarfever. He was the man whose daughter Kaladin hadn’t been able to save after her fall.

  “Excellent,” Amaram said. “Are there any others?”

  The townspeople were still. Oddly so. Many of the boys Kaladin had heard talk so often about joining the army looked away. Kaladin felt his heart beating, and his leg twitched, as if itching to propel him forward.

  No. He was to be a surgeon. Lirin looked at him, and his dark brown eyes displayed hints of deep concern. But when Kaladin didn’t make any moves forward, he relaxed.

  “Very well,” Amaram said, nodding to Roshone. “We will need your list after all.”

  “List?” Lirin asked loudly.

  Amaram glanced at him. “The need of our army is great, darkborn. I will take volunteers first, but the army must be replenished. As citylord, my cousin has the duty and honor of deciding which men to send.”

  “Read the first four names, Alaxia,” Roshone said, “and the last one.”

  Alaxia looked down at her list, speaking with a dry voice. “Agil, son of Marf. Caull, son of Taleb.”

  Kaladin looked up at Lirin with apprehension.

  “He can’t take you,” Lirin said. “We’re of the second nahn and provide an essential function to the town—I as surgeon, you as my only apprentice. By the law, we are exempt from conscription. Roshone knows it.”

  “Habrin, son of Arafik,” Alaxia continued. “Jorna, son of Loats.” She hesitated, then looked up. “Tien, son of Lirin.”

  There was a stillness across the square. Even the rain seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then, all eyes turned toward Tien. The boy looked dumbfounded. Lirin was immune as town surgeon, Kaladin immune as his apprentice.

  But not Tien. He was a carpenter’s third apprentice, not vital, not immune.

  Hesina gripped Tien tightly. “No!”

  Lirin stepped in front of them, defensive. Kaladin stood stunned, looking at Roshone. Smiling, self-satisfied Roshone.

  We took his son, Kaladin realized, meeting those beady eyes. This is his revenge.

  “I…” Tien said. “The military?” For once, he seemed to lose his confidence, his optimism. His eyes opened wide, and he grew very pale. He fainted when he saw blood. He hated fighting. He was still small and spindly despite his age.

  “He’s too young,” Lirin declared. Their neighbors sidled away, leaving Lirin’s family to stand alone in the rain.

  Amaram frowned. “In the cities, youths as young as eight and nine are accepted into the military.”

  “Lighteyed sons!” Lirin said. “To be trained as officers. They aren’t sent into battle!”

  Amaram frowned more deeply. He stepped out into the rain, walking up to the family. “How old are you, son?” he asked Tien.

  “He’s thirteen,” Lirin said.

  Amaram glanced at him. “The surgeon. I’ve heard of you.” He sighed, glancing back at Amaram. “I haven’t the time to engage in your petty, small-town politics, cousin. Isn’t there another boy that will do?”

  “It is my choice!” Roshone insisted. “Given me by the dictates of law. I send those the town can spare—well, that boy is the first one we can spare.”

  Lirin stepped forward, eyes full of anger. Highmarshal Amaram caught him by the arm. “Do not do something you would regret, darkborn. Roshone has acted according to the law.”

  “You hid behind the law, sneering at me, surgeon,” Roshone called to Lirin. “Well, now it turns against you. Keep those spheres! The look on your face at this moment is worth the price of every one of them!”

  “I…” Tien said again. Kaladin had never seen the boy so terrified.

  Kaladin felt powerless. The crowd’s eyes were on Lirin, standing with his arm in the grip of the lighteyed general, locking his gaze with Roshone.

  “I’ll make the lad a runner boy for a year or two,” Amaram promised. “He won’t be in combat. It is the best I can do. Every body is needed in these times.”

  Lirin slumped, then bowed his head. Roshone laughed, motioning Laral toward the carriage. She didn’t glance at Kaladin as she climbed back in. Roshone followed, and though he was still laughing, his expression had grown hard. Lifeless. Like the dull clouds above. He had his revenge, but his son was still dead and he was still stuck in Hearthstone.

  Amaram regarded the crowd. “The recruits may bring two changes of clothing and up to three stoneweights of other possessions. They will be weighed. Report to the army in two hours and ask for Sergeant Hav.” He turned and followed Roshone.

  Tien stared after him, pale as a whitewashed building. Kaladin could see his terror at leaving his family. His brother, the one who always made him smile when it rained. It was physically painful for Kaladin to see him so scared. It wasn’t right. Tien should smile. That was who he was.

  He felt the wooden horse in his pocket. Tien always brought him relief when he felt pained. Suddenly, it occurred to him that there was something he could do in turn. It’s time to stop hiding in the room when someone else holds up the globe of light, Kaladin thought. It’s time to be a man.

  “Brightlord Amaram!” Kaladin yelled.

  The general hesitated, standing on the stepstool into the carriage, one foot in the door. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “I want to take Tien’s place,” Kaladin said.

  “Not allowed!” Roshone said from inside the carriage. “The law says I may choose.”

  Amaram nodded grimly.

  “Then what if you take me as well,” Kaladin said. “Can I volunteer?” That way, at least, Tien wouldn’t be alone.

  “Kaladin!” Hesina said, grabbing him on one arm.

  “It is allowed,” Amaram said. “I will not turn away any soldier, son. If you want to join, you are welcome.”

  “Kaladin, no,” Lirin said. “Don’t both of you go. Don’t—”

  Kaladin looked at Tien, the boy’s face wet beneath his wide-brimmed hat. He shook his head, but his eyes seemed hopeful.

  “I volunteer,” Kaladin said, turning back to Amaram. “I’ll go.”

  “Then you have two hours,” Amaram said, climbing into the carriage. “Same possession allotment as the others.”

  The carriage door shut, but not before Kaladin got a glimpse of an even more satisfied Roshone. Rattling, the vehicle splashed away, dropping a sheet of water from its roof.

  “Why?” Lirin said, turning back to Kaladin, his voice ragged. “Why have you done this to me? After all of our plans!”

  Kaladin turned to Tien. The boy took his arm. “Thank you,” Tien whispered. “Thank you, Kaladin. Thank you.”

  “I’ve lost both of you,” Lirin said hoarsely, splashing away. “Storm it! Both of you.” He was crying. Kaladin’s mother was crying too. She clutched Tien again.

  “Father!” Kaladin said, turning, amazed at how confident he felt.

  Lirin paused, standing in the rain, one foot in a puddle where rainspren clustered. They inched away from him like vertical slugs.

  “In four years, I will bring him home safely,” Kaladin said. “I promise it by the storms and the Almighty’s tenth name itself. I will bring him back.”

  I promise….

  “Yelignar, called Blightwind, was one that could speak like a man, though often his voice was accompanied by the wails of those he consumed.”

  —The Unmade were obviously fabrications of folklore. Curiously, most were not considered individuals, but instead personifications of kinds of destruction. This quot
e is from Traxil, line 33, considered a primary source, though I doubt its authenticity.

  They are an oddly welcoming group, these wild parshmen, Shallan read. It was King Gavilar’s account again, recorded a year before his murder. It has now been nearly five months since our first meeting. Dalinar continues to pressure me to return to our homeland, insisting that the expedition has stretched too long.

  The parshmen promise that they will lead me on a hunt for a great-shelled beast they call an ulo mas vara, which my scholars say translates roughly to “Monster of the Chasms.” If their descriptions are accurate, these creatures have large gemhearts, and one of their heads would make a truly impressive trophy. They also speak of their terrible gods, and we think they must be referring to several particularly large chasm greatshells.

  We are amazed to find religion among these parshmen. The mounting evidence of a complete parshman society—with civilization, culture, and a unique language—is astounding. My stormwardens have begun calling this people “the Parshendi.” It is obvious this group is very different from our ordinary servant parshmen, and may not even be the same race, despite the skin patterns. Perhaps they are distant cousins, as different from ordinary parshmen as Alethi axehounds are from the Selay breed.

  The Parshendi have seen our servants, and are confused by them. “Where is their music?” Klade will often ask me. I do not know what he means. But our servants do not react to the Parshendi at all, showing no interest in emulating them. This is reassuring.

  The question about music may have to do with the humming and chanting the Parshendi often do. They have an uncanny ability to make music together. I swear that I have left one Parshendi singing to himself, then soon passed another out of earshot of the first, yet singing the very same song—eerily near to the other in tempo, tune, and lyric.

  Their favored instrument is the drum. They are crudely made, with handprints of paint marking the sides. This matches their simple buildings, which they construct of crem and stone. They build them in the craterlike rock formations here at the edge of the Shattered Plains. I ask Klade if they worry about highstorms, but he just laughs. “Why worry? If the buildings blow down, we can build them again, can we not?”