The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  “I had Havrom gather the soldiers that Sadeas spoke to the other day,” Dalinar said. “The ones he interviewed while we were on our way to the plateau assault.”

  “Ah,” Adolin said. “We’ll want to know what he asked them.”

  “Yes,” Dalinar said. He gestured for Adolin to enter before him, and they walked in-tailed by a few of Dalinar’s ardents. Inside, a group of ten soldiers waited on benches. They rose and saluted.

  “At ease,” Dalinar said, clasping plated hands behind his back. “Adolin?” Dalinar nodded toward the men, indicating that Adolin should take the lead in the questioning.

  Adolin stifled a sigh. Again? “Men, we need to know what Sadeas asked you and how you responded.”

  “Don’t worry, Brightlord,” said one of the men, speaking with a rural northern Alethi accent. “We didn’t tell him nothing.”

  The others nodded vigorously.

  “He’s an eel, and we know it,” another added.

  “He is a highprince,” Dalinar said sternly. “You will treat him with respect.”

  The soldier paled, then nodded.

  “What, specifically, did he ask you?” Adolin asked.

  “He wanted to know our duties in the camp, Brightlord,” the man said. “We’re grooms, you see.”

  Each soldier was trained in one or two additional skills beyond those of combat. Having a group of soldiers who could care for horses was useful, as it kept civilians from plateau assaults.

  “He asked around,” said one of the men. “Or, well, his people did. Found out we were in charge of the king’s horse during the chasmfiend hunt.”

  “But we didn’t say nothing,” the first soldier repeated. “Nothing to get you into trouble, sir. We’re not going to give that ee-er, that highprince, Brightlord sir, the rope to hang you, sir.”

  Adolin closed his eyes. If they had acted this way around Sadeas, it would have been more incriminating than the cut girth itself. He couldn’t fault their loyalty, but they acted as if they assumed Dalinar had done something wrong, and needed to defend him.

  He opened his eyes. “I spoke to some of you before, I recall. But let me ask again. Did any of you see a cut strap on the king’s saddle?”

  The men looked at each other, shaking heads. “No, Brightlord,” one of the men replied. “If we’d seen it, we’d have changed it, right we would.”

  “But, Brightlord,” one of the men added, “there was a lot of confusion that day, and a lot of people. Wasn’t a right regular plateau assault or nothing like that. And, well, to be honest, sir, who’d have thought that we’d need to protect the king’s saddle, of all things under the Halls?”

  Dalinar nodded to Adolin, and they stepped out of the tent. “Well?”

  “They probably didn’t do much to help our cause,” Adolin said with a grimace. “Despite their ardor. Or, rather, because of it.”

  “Agreed, unfortunately.” Dalinar let out a sigh. He waved to Tadet; the short ardent was standing to the side of the tent. “Interview them separately,” Dalinar told him softly. “See if you can tease specifics from them. Try to find out the exact words Sadeas used, and what their exact responses were.”

  “Yes, Brightlord.”

  “Come, Adolin,” Dalinar said. “We’ve still got a few inspections to do.”

  “Father,” Adolin said, taking Dalinar’s arm. Their armor clinked softly.

  Dalinar turned to him, frowning, and Adolin made a quick gesture toward the Cobalt Guard. A request for space to speak. The guards moved efficiently and quickly, clearing a private space around the two men.

  “What is this about, Father?” Adolin demanded softly.

  “What? We’re doing inspections and seeing to camp business.”

  “And in each case, you shove me out into the lead,” Adolin said. “Awkwardly, in a few cases, I might add. What’s wrong? What’s going on inside that head of yours?”

  “I thought you had a distinct problem with the things going on inside my head.”

  Adolin winced. “Father, I-”

  “No, it’s all right, Adolin. I’m just trying to make a difficult decision. It helps me to move about while I do it.” Dalinar grimaced. “Another man might find a place to sit and brood, but that never seems to help me. I’ve got too much to do.”

  “What is it you’re trying to decide?” Adolin asked. “Perhaps I can help.”

  “You already have. I-” Dalinar cut off, frowning. A small force of soldiers was walking up to the Fifth Battalion’s practice yards. They were escorting a man in red and brown. Those were Thanadal’s colors.

  “Don’t you have a meeting with him this evening?” Adolin asked.

  “Yes,” Dalinar said.

  Niter-head of the Cobalt Guard-ran to intercept the newcomers. He could be overly suspicious at times, but that wasn’t a terrible trait for a bodyguard to have. He returned to Dalinar and Adolin shortly. Tanfaced, Niter bore a black beard, cut short. He was a lighteyes of very low rank, and had been with the guard for years. “He says that Highprince Thanadal will be unable to meet with you today as planned.”

  Dalinar’s expression grew dark. “I will speak to the runner myself.”

  Reluctantly, Niter waved the spindly fellow forward. He approached and dropped to one knee before Dalinar. “Brightlord.”

  This time, Dalinar didn’t ask for Adolin to take the lead. “Deliver your message.”

  “Brightlord Thanadal regrets that he is unable to attend you this day.”

  “And did he offer another time to meet?”

  “He regrets to say that he has grown too busy. But he would be happy to speak with you at the king’s feast one evening.”

  In public, Adolin thought, where half the men nearby will be eavesdropping while the other half-likely including Thanadal himself-will probably be drunk.

  “I see,” Dalinar said. “And did he give any indication of when he’d no longer be so busy?”

  “Brightlord,” the messenger said, growing uncomfortable. “He said that if you pressed, I should explain that he has spoken with several of the other highprinces, and feels he knows the nature of your inquiry. He said to tell you he does not wish to form an alliance, nor does he have any intention of going on a joint plateau assault with you.”

  Dalinar’s expression grew darker. He dismissed the messenger with a wave, then turned to Adolin. The Cobalt Guard still kept a space open around them so they could talk.

  “Thanadal was the last of them,” Dalinar said. Each highprince had turned him down in his own way. Hatham with exceeding politeness, Bethab by letting his wife give the explanation, Thanadal with hostile civility. “All of them but Sadeas, at least.”

  “I doubt it would be wise to approach him with this, Father.”

  “You’re probably right.” Dalinar’s voice was cold. He was angry. Furious, even. “They’re sending me a message. They’ve never liked the influence I have over the king, and they’re eager to see me fall. They don’t want to do something I ask them to, just in case it might help me regain my footing.”

  “Father, I’m sorry.”

  “Perhaps it’s for the best. The important point is that I have failed. I can’t get them to work together. Elhokar was right.” He looked to Adolin. “I would like you to continue inspections for me, son. There’s something I want to do.”

  “What?”

  “Just some work I see needs to be done.”

  Adolin wanted to object, but he couldn’t think of the words to say. Finally, he sighed and gave a nod. “You’ll tell me what this is about, though?”

  “Soon,” Dalinar promised. “Very soon.”

  Dalinar watched his son leave, striding purposefully away. He would make a good highprince. Dalinar’s decision was a simple one.

  Was it time to step aside, and let his son take his place?

  If he took this step, Dalinar would be expected to stay out of politics, retiring to his lands and leaving Adolin to rule. It was a painful decision to contemp
late, and he had to be careful not to make it hastily. But if he really was going mad, as everyone in the camp seemed to believe, then he had to step down. And soon, before his condition progressed to the point that he no longer had the presence of mind to let go.

  A monarch is control, he thought, remembering a passage from The Way of Kings. He provides stability. It is his service and his trade good. If he cannot control himself, then how can he control the lives of men? What merchant worth his Stormlight won’t partake of the very fruit he sells?

  Odd, that those quotes still came to him, even as he was wondering if they had-in part-driven him to madness. “Niter,” he said. “Fetch my warhammer. Have it waiting for me at the staging field.”

  Dalinar wanted to be moving, working, as he thought. His guards hastened to keep up as he strode down the pathway between the barracks of Battalions Six and Seven. Niter sent several men to fetch the weapon. His voice sounded strangely excited, as if he thought Dalinar was going to do something impressive.

  Dalinar doubted he would think it so. He eventually strode out onto the staging field, cape fluttering behind him, plated boots clanking against the stones. He didn’t have to wait long for the hammer; it came pulled by two men on a small cart. Sweating, the soldiers heaved it from the cart, the haft as thick as a man’s wrist and the front of the head larger than an outspread palm. Two men together could barely lift it.

  Dalinar grabbed the hammer with one gauntleted hand, swinging it up to rest on his shoulder. He ignored the soldiers performing exercises on the field, walking to where the group of dirty workers chipped at the latrine ditch. They looked up at him, horrified to see the highprince himself looming over them in full Shardplate.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Dalinar asked.

  A scruffy civilian in brown trousers raised a nervous hand. “Brightlord, how may we serve you?”

  “By relaxing for a little while,” Dalinar said. “Out with you.”

  The worried workers scrambled out. Lighteyed officers gathered behind, confused by Dalinar’s actions.

  Dalinar gripped the haft of his warhammer in a gauntleted hand; the metal shaft was wrapped tightly with leather. Taking a deep breath, he leaped down into the half-finished ditch, lifted the hammer, then swung, slamming the weapon down against the rock.

  A powerful crack rang across the practice field, and a wave of shock ran up Dalinar’s arms. The Shardplate absorbed most of the recoil, and he left a large crack in the stones. He hefted and swung again, this time breaking free a large section of rock. Though it would have been difficult for two or three regular men to lift, Dalinar grabbed it with one hand and tossed it aside. It clattered across the stones.

  Where were the Shards for regular men? Why hadn’t the ancients, who were so wise, created anything to help them? As Dalinar continued to work, beats of his hammer throwing chips and dust into the air, he easily did the work of twenty men. Shardplate could be used for so many things to ease the lives of workers and darkeyes across Roshar.

  It felt good to be working. To be doing something useful. Lately, he felt as if his efforts had been akin to running about in circles. The work helped him think.

  He was losing his thirst for battle. That worried him, as the Thrill-the enjoyment and longing for war-was part of what drove the Alethi as a people. The grandest of masculine arts was to become a great warrior, and the most important Calling was to fight. The Almighty himself depended on the Alethi to train themselves in honorable battle so that when they died, they could join the Heralds’ army and win back the Tranquiline Halls.

  And yet, thinking about killing was starting to sicken him. It had grown worse since that last bridge assault. What would happen next time he went into battle? He could not lead this way. That was a major reason that abdicating in favor of Adolin looked right.

  He continued to swing. Again and again, beating against the stones. Soldiers gathered above and-despite his orders-the workers did not leave to relax. They watched, dumbfounded, as a Shardbearer did their work. Occasionally, he summoned his Blade and used it to cut the rock, slicing out sections before returning to the hammer to break them apart.

  He probably looked ridiculous. He couldn’t do the work of all of the laborers in camp, and he had important tasks to fill his time. There was no reason for him to get down in a trench and toil. And yet it felt so good. So wonderful to pitch in directly with the needs of the camp. The results of what he did to protect Elhokar were often difficult to gauge; it was fulfilling to be able to do something where his progress was obvious.

  But even in this, he was acting according to the ideals that had infected him. The book spoke of a king carrying the burdens of his people. It said that those who led were the lowest of men, for they were required to serve everyone. It all swirled around in him. The Codes, the teachings of the book, the things the visions-or delusions-showed.

  Never fight other men except when forced to in war.

  Bang!

  Let your actions defend you, not your words.

  Bang!

  Expect honor from those you meet, and give them the chance to live up to it.

  Bang!

  Rule as you would be ruled.

  Bang!

  He stood waist-deep in what would eventually be a latrine, his ears filled with the groans of breaking stone. He was coming to believe those ideals. No, he’d already come to believe them. Now he was living them. What would the world be like if all men lived as the book proclaimed?

  Someone had to start. Someone had to be the model. In this, he had a reason not to abdicate. Whether or not he was mad, the way he now did things was better than the way Sadeas or the others did them. One needed only look at the lives of his soldiers and his people to see that was true.

  Bang!

  Stone could not be changed without pounding. Was it the same with a man like him? Was that why everything was so hard for him suddenly? But why him? Dalinar wasn’t a philosopher or idealist. He was a soldier. And-if he admitted the truth-in earlier years, he’d been a tyrant and a warmonger. Could twilight years spent pretending to follow the precepts of better men erase a lifetime of butchery?

  He had begun to sweat. The swath he had cut through the ground was as wide as a man was tall, as deep as his chest, and some thirty yards long. The longer he worked, the more people gathered to watch and whisper.

  Shardplate was sacred. Was the highprince really digging a latrine with it? Had the stress affected him that profoundly? Frightened of highstorms. Growing cowardly. Refusing to duel or defend himself from slurs. Afraid of fighting, wishing to give up the war.

  Suspected of trying to kill the king.

  Eventually, Teleb decided that letting all the people stare down at Dalinar wasn’t respectful, and he ordered the men back to their separate duties. He cleared away the workers, taking Dalinar’s order to heart and commanding them to sit in the shade and “converse in a lighthearted manner.” From someone else, that command might have been said with a smile, but Teleb was as literal as the rocks themselves.

  Still Dalinar worked. He knew where the latrine was supposed to end; he’d approved the work order. A long, sloping trough was to be cut, then covered with oiled and tarred boards to seal in the scent. A latrine house would be set at the high end, and the contents could be Soulcast to smoke once every few months.

  The work felt even better once he was alone. One man, breaking rocks, pounding beat after beat. Like the drums the Parshendi had played on that day so long past. Dalinar could feel those beats still, could hear them in his mind, shaking him.

  I’m sorry, brother.

  He had spoken to the ardents about his visions. They felt that the visions were most likely a product of an overtaxed mind.

  He had no reason to believe the truth of anything the visions showed him. In following them, he had done more than just ignore Sadeas’s maneuvers; he’d depleted his resources precariously. His reputation was on the brink of ruin. He was in danger of dragging down the entire
Kholin house.

  And that was the most important point in favor of him abdicating. If he continued, his actions could very well lead to the deaths of Adolin, Renarin, and Elhokar. He would risk his own life for his ideals, but could he risk the lives of his sons?

  Chips sprayed, bouncing off his Plate. He was beginning to feel worn and tired. The Plate didn’t do the work for him-it enhanced his strength, so each strike of the hammer was his own. His fingers were growing numb from the repeated vibration of the hammer’s haft. He was close to a decision. His mind was calm, clear.

  He swung the hammer again.

  “Wouldn’t the Blade be more efficient?” asked a dry, feminine voice.

  Dalinar froze, the hammer’s head resting on broken stone. He turned to see Navani standing beside the trough, wearing a gown of blue and soft red, her grey-sprinkled hair reflecting light from a sun that was unexpectedly close to setting. She was attended by two young women-not her own wards, but ones she had “borrowed” from other lighteyed women in the camp.

  Navani stood with her arms folded, the sunlight behind her like a halo. Dalinar hesitantly raised an armored forearm to block the light. “Mathana?”

  “The rockwork,” Navani said, nodding to the trough. “Now, I wouldn’t presume to make judgments; hitting things is a masculine art. But are you not in the possession of a sword that can cut through stone as easily as-I once had it described to me-a highstorm blows over a Herdazian?”

  Dalinar looked back at the rocks. Then he raised his hammer again and slammed it into the stones, making a satisfying crunch. “Shardblades are too good at cutting.”

  “Curious,” she said. “I’ll do my best to pretend there was sense in that. As an aside, has it ever struck you that most masculine arts deal with destroying, while feminine arts deal with creation?”

  Dalinar swung again. Bang! Remarkable how much easier it was to have a conversation with Navani while not looking directly at her. “I do use the Blade to cut down the sides and middle. But I still have to break up the rocks. Have you ever tried to lift out a chunk of stone that has been sliced by a Shardblade?”