The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  Kaladin started. “You can see her?” He glanced at Syl. As a windspren, she could appear to those she wanted to-and that generally only meant Kaladin.

  Syl seemed shocked. No, she hadn’t appeared to Rock specifically.

  “I am alaii’iku,” Rock said, shrugging.

  “Which means…”

  Rock scowled. “Airsick lowlanders. Is there nothing proper you know? Anyway, you are special man. Bridge Four, it lost eight runners yesterday counting the three wounded.”

  “I know,” Kaladin said. “I broke my first promise. I said I wasn’t going to lose a single one.”

  Rock snorted. “We are bridgemen. We die. Is how this thing works. You might as well promise to make the moons catch each other!” The large man turned, pointing toward one of the other barracks. “Of the bridges that were fired upon, most lost many men. Five bridges fell. They lost over twenty men each and needed soldiers to help get bridges back. Bridge Two lost eleven men, and it wasn’t even a focus of firing.”

  He turned back to Kaladin. “Bridge Four lost eight. Eight men, during one of the worst runs of the season. And, perhaps, you will save two of those. Bridge Four lost fewest men of any bridge that the Parshendi tried to drop. Bridge Four never loses fewest men. Everyone knows how it is.”

  “Luck-”

  Rock pointed a fat finger at him, cutting him off. “Airsick lowlander.”

  It was just luck. But, well, Kaladin would take it for the small blessing it was. No use arguing when someone had finally decided to start listening to him.

  But one man wasn’t enough. Even if both he and Rock went on half rations, one of the sick men would starve. He needed spheres. He needed them desperately. But he was a slave; it was illegal for him to earn money in most ways. If only he had something he could sell. But he owned nothing. He…

  A thought occurred to him.

  “Come on,” he said, striding away from the barrack. Rock followed curiously. Kaladin searched through the lumberyard until he found Gaz speaking with a bridgeleader in front of Bridge Three’s barrack. As was growing more common, Gaz grew pale when Kaladin approached, and made as if to scurry away.

  “Gaz, wait!” Kaladin said, holding out his hand. “I have an offer for you.”

  The bridge sergeant froze. Beside Gaz, Bridge Three’s leader shot Kaladin a scowl. The way the other bridgemen had been treating him suddenly made sense. They were perturbed to see Bridge Four come out of a battle in such good shape. Bridge Four was supposed to be unlucky. Everyone needed someone else to look down on-and the other bridge crews could be consoled by the small mercy that they weren’t in Bridge Four. Kaladin had upset that.

  The dark-bearded bridgeleader retreated, leaving Kaladin and Rock alone with Gaz.

  “What are you offering this time?” Gaz said. “More dun spheres?”

  “No,” Kaladin said, thinking quickly. This would have to be handled very carefully. “I’m out of spheres. But we can’t continue like this, you avoiding me, the other bridge crews hating me.”

  “Don’t see what we can do about it.”

  “I tell you what,” Kaladin said, as if suddenly having a thought. “Is anyone on stone-gathering detail today?”

  “Yeah,” Gaz said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Bridge Three. Bussik there was just trying to convince me that his team is too weak to go. Storms blast me, but I believe him. Lost two-thirds of his men yesterday, and I’ll be the one who gets chewed out when they don’t gather enough stones to meet quota.”

  Kaladin nodded sympathetically. Stone gathering was one of the least desirable work details; it involved traveling outside of the camp and filling wagons with large rocks. Soulcasters fed the army by turning rocks into grain, and it was easier for them-for reasons only they knew-if they had distinct, separate stones. So men gathered rocks. It was menial, sweaty, tiring, mindless work. Perfect for bridgemen.

  “Why don’t you send a different bridge team?” Kaladin asked.

  “Bah,” Gaz said. “You know the kind of trouble that makes. If I’m seen playing favorites, I never hear an end of the complaining.”

  “Nobody will complain if you make Bridge Four do it.”

  Gaz glanced at him, single eye narrowed. “I didn’t think you’d react well to being treated differently.”

  “I’ll do it,” Kaladin said, grimacing. “Just this once. Look, Gaz, I don’t want to spend the rest of my time here fighting against you.”

  Gaz hesitated. “Your men are going to be angry. I won’t let them think it was me who did this to them.”

  “I’ll tell them that it was my idea.”

  “All right, then. Third bell, meet at the western checkpoint. Bridge Three can clean pots.” He walked away quickly, as if to escape before Kaladin changed his mind.

  Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, watching Gaz. “The little man is right, you know. The men will hate you for this thing. They were looking forward to easy day.”

  “They’ll get over it.”

  “But why change for harder work? Is true-you are crazy, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. But that craziness will get us outside of the warcamp.”

  “What good is that?”

  “It means everything,” Kaladin said, glancing back at the barrack. “It means life and death. But we’re going to need more help.”

  “Another bridge crew?”

  “No, I mean that we-you and I-will need help. One more man, at least.” He scanned the lumberyard, and noted someone sitting in the shadow of Bridge Four’s barrack. Teft. The grizzled bridgeman hadn’t been among the group that had laughed at Kaladin earlier, but he had been quick to help yesterday, going with Rock to carry Leyten.

  Kaladin took a deep breath and strode out across the grounds, Rock trailing behind. Syl left his shoulder and zipped into the air, dancing on a sudden gust of wind. Teft looked up as Kaladin and Rock approached. The older man had fetched breakfast, and he was eating alone, a piece of flatbread peeking out beneath his bowl.

  His beard was stained by the curry, and he regarded Kaladin with wary eyes before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I like my food, son,” he said. “Hardly think they feed me enough for one man. Let alone two.”

  Kaladin squatted in front of him. Rock leaned up against the wall and folded his arms, watching quietly.

  “I need you, Teft,” Kaladin said.

  “I said-”

  “Not your food. You. Your loyalty. Your allegiance.”

  The older man continued to eat. He didn’t have a slave brand, and neither did Rock. Kaladin didn’t know their stories. All he knew was that these two had helped when others hadn’t. They weren’t completely beaten down.

  “Teft-” Kaladin began.

  “I’ve given my loyalty before,” the man said. “Too many times now. Always works out the same.”

  “Your trust gets betrayed?” Kaladin asked softly.

  Teft snorted. “Storms, no. I betray it. You can’t depend on me, son. I belong here, as a bridgeman.”

  “I depended on you yesterday, and you impressed me.”

  “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….”

  22

  Eyes,Hands,or Spheres

  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.”