The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  She’d anticipated a feeling of power. Prickles on her skin, perhaps, or a sense of strength and might. But there was nothing.

  She tapped the three gemstones-she’d placed her smokestone into the third setting. Some other fabrials, like spanreeds, worked when you tapped the stones. But that was foolish, as she’d never seen Jasnah do that. The woman just closed her eyes and touched something, Soulcasting it. Smoke, crystal, and fire were what this Soulcaster was best at. Only once had she seen Jasnah create anything else.

  Hesitant, Shallan took a piece of broken shalebark from the base of one of the plants. She held it up in her freehand, then closed her eyes.

  Become smoke! she commanded.

  Nothing happened.

  Become crystal! she commanded instead.

  She cracked an eye. There was no change.

  Fire. Burn! You’re fire! You-

  She paused, realizing the stupidity of that. A mysteriously burned hand? No, that wouldn’t be at all suspicious. Instead, she focused on crystal. She closed her eyes again, holding the image of a piece of quartz in her mind. She tried to will the shalebark to change.

  Nothing happened, so she just tried focusing, imagining the shalebark transforming. After a few minutes of failure, she tried making the pouch change instead, then tried the bench, then tried one of her hairs. Nothing worked.

  Shallan checked to make certain she was still alone, then sat down, frustrated. Nan Balat had asked Luesh how the devices worked, and he’d said that it was easier to show than explain. He’d promised to give them answers if she actually managed to steal Jasnah’s.

  Now he was dead. Was she doomed to carry this one back to her family, only to immediately give it away to those dangerous men, never using it to gain wealth to protect her house? All because they didn’t know how to activate it?

  The other fabrials she’d used had been simple to activate, but those were constructed by contemporary artifabrians. Soulcasters were fabrials from ancient times. They wouldn’t employ modern methods of activation. She stared at the glowing gemstones suspended on the back of her hand. How would she figure out the method of using a tool thousands of years old, one forbidden to any but ardents?

  She slid the Soulcaster back into her safepouch. It seemed she was back to searching the Palanaeum. That or asking Kabsal. But would she manage that without looking suspicious? She broke out his bread and jam, eating and thinking idly. If Kabsal didn’t know, and if she couldn’t find the answers by the time she left Kharbranth, were there other options? If she took the artifact to the Veden king-or maybe the ardents-might they be able to protect her family in exchange for the gift? After all, she couldn’t really be blamed for stealing from a heretic, and so long as Jasnah didn’t know who had the Soulcaster, they would be safe.

  For some reason, that made her feel even worse. Stealing the Soulcaster to save her family was one thing, but turning it over to the very ardents whom Jasnah disdained? It seemed a greater betrayal.

  Yet another difficult decision. Well then, she thought, it’s a good thing Jasnah is so determined to train me in how to deal with those. By the time all this is done, I should be quite the expert….

  40

  Eyes of Red and Blue

  “Death upon the lips. Sound upon the air. Char upon the skin.”

  — From “The Last Desolation” by Ambrian, line 335.

  Kaladin stumbled into the light, shading his eyes against the burning sun, his bare feet feeling the transition from cold indoor stone to sun-warmed stone outside. The air was lightly humid, not muggy as it had been in previous weeks.

  He rested his hand on the wooden doorframe, his legs quivering rebelliously, his arms feeling as if he’d carried a bridge for three days straight. He breathed deeply. His side should have blazed with pain, but he felt only a residual soreness. Some of his deeper cuts were still scabbed over, but the smaller ones had vanished completely. His head was surprisingly clear. He didn’t even have a headache.

  He rounded the side of the barrack, feeling stronger with each step, though he kept his hand on the wall. Lopen followed behind; the Herdazian had been watching over Kaladin when he awoke.

  I should be dead, Kaladin thought. What is going on?

  On the other side of the barrack he was surprised to find the men carrying their bridge in daily practice. Rock ran at the front center, giving the marching beat as Kaladin had once done. They reached the other side of the lumberyard and turned around, charging back. Only when they were almost past the barrack did one of the men in front-Moash-notice Kaladin. He froze, nearly causing the entire bridge crew to trip.

  “What is wrong with you?” Torfin yelled from behind, head enveloped by the wood of the bridge.

  Moash didn’t listen. He ducked out from under the bridge, looking at Kaladin with wide eyes. Rock gave a hasty shout for the men to put down the bridge. More saw him, adopting the same reverent expressions as Moash. Hobber and Peet, their wounds sufficiently healed, had started practicing with the others. That was good. They’d be drawing pay again.

  The men walked up to Kaladin, silent in their leather vests. They kept their distance, hesitant, as if he were fragile. Or holy. Kaladin was bare-chested, his nearly healed wounds exposed, and wore only his knee-length bridgeman’s trousers.

  “You really need to practice what to do if one of you trips or stumbles, men,” Kaladin said. “When Moash stopped abruptly, you all about fell over. That could be a disaster on the field.”

  They stared at him, incredulous, and he couldn’t help but smile. In a moment, they crowded around him, laughing and thumping him on the back. It wasn’t an entirely appropriate welcome for a sick man, particularly when Rock did it, but Kaladin did appreciate their enthusiasm.

  Only Teft didn’t join in. The aging bridgeman stood at the side, arms folded. He seemed concerned. “Teft?” Kaladin asked. “You all right?”

  Teft snorted, but showed a hint of a grin. “I just figure those lads don’t bathe often enough for me to want to get close enough for a hug. No offense.”

  Kaladin laughed. “I understand.” His last “bath” had been the highstorm.

  The highstorm.

  The other bridgemen continued to laugh, asking how he felt, proclaiming that Rock would have to fix something extra special for their nightly fireside meal. Kaladin smiled and nodded, assuring them he felt well, but he was remembering the storm.

  He recalled it distinctly. Holding to the ring atop the building, his head down and eyes closed against the pelting torrent. He remembered Syl, standing protectively before him, as if she could turn back the storm itself. He couldn’t see her about now. Where was she?

  He also remembered the face. The Stormfather himself? Surely not. A delusion. Yes…yes, he’d certainly been delusional. Memories of deathspren were blended with relived parts of his life-and both mixed with strange, sudden shocks of strength-icy cold, but refreshing. It had been like the cold air of a crisp morning after a long night in a stuffy room, or like rubbing the sap of gulket leaves on sore muscles, making them feel warm and cold at the same time.

  He could remember those moments so clearly. What had caused them? The fever?

  “How long?” he said, checking over the bridgemen, counting them. Thirty-three, counting Lopen and the silent Dabbid. Almost all were accounted for. Impossible. If his ribs were healed, then he must have been unconscious for three weeks, at least. How many bridge runs?

  “Ten days,” Moash said.

  “Impossible,” Kaladin said. “My wounds-”

  “Is why we’re so surprised to see you up and walking!” Rock said, laughing. “You must have bones like granite. Is my name you should be having!”

  Kaladin leaned back against the wall. Nobody corrected Moash. An entire crew of men couldn’t lose track of the weeks like that. “Idolir and Treff?” he asked.

  “We lost them,” Moash said, growing solemn. “We did two bridge runs while you were unconscious. Nobody badly wounded, but two dead. We�
��we didn’t know how to help them.”

  That made the men grow subdued. But death was the way of bridgemen, and they couldn’t afford to dwell for long on the lost. Kaladin did decide, however, that he’d need to train a few of the others in healing.

  But how was he up and walking? Had he been less injured than he’d assumed? Hesitantly, he prodded at his side, feeling for broken ribs. Just a little sore. Other than the weakness, he felt as healthy as he ever had. Perhaps he should have paid a little more attention to his mother’s religious teachings.

  As the men turned back to talking and celebrating, he noticed the looks they gave him. Respectful, reverent. They remembered what he’d said before the highstorm. Looking back, Kaladin realized he’d been a little delirious. It now seemed an incredibly arrogant proclamation, not to mention that it smelled of prophecy. If the ardents discovered that…

  Well, he couldn’t undo what he’d done. He’d just have to continue. You were already balancing over a chasm, Kaladin thought to himself. Did you have to scale an even higher cliffside?

  A sudden, mournful horn call sounded across the camp. The bridgemen fell silent. The horn sounded twice more.

  “Figures,” Natam said.

  “We’re on duty?” Kaladin asked.

  “Yeah,” Moash said.

  “Line up!” Rock snapped. “You know what to do! Let’s show Captain Kaladin that we haven’t forgotten how to do this.”

  “‘Captain’ Kaladin?” Kaladin asked as the men lined up.

  “Sure, gancho,” Lopen said from beside him, speaking with that quick accent that seemed so at odds with his nonchalant attitude. “They tried to make Rock bridgeleader, sure, but we just started calling you ‘captain’ and him ‘squadleader.’ Made Gaz angry.” Lopen grinned.

  Kaladin nodded. The other men were so joyous, but he was finding it difficult to share their mood.

  As they formed up around their bridge, he began to realize the source of his melancholy. His men were right back where they’d started. Or worse. He was weakened and injured, and had offended the highprince himself. Sadeas would not be pleased when he learned that Kaladin had survived his fever.

  The bridgemen were still destined to be cut down one by one. The side carry had been a failure. He hadn’t saved his men, he’d just given them a short stay of execution.

  Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive….

  He suspected why that was. Gritting his teeth, he let go of the barrack wall and crossed to where the bridgemen stood in line, leaders of the sub-squads doing a quick check of their vests and sandals.

  Rock eyed Kaladin. “And what is this thing you believe you are doing?”

  “I’m joining you,” Kaladin said.

  “And what would you tell one of the men if they had just gotten up from a week with the fevers?”

  Kaladin hesitated. I’m not like the other men, he thought, then regretted it. He couldn’t start believing himself invincible. To run now with the crew, as weak as he was, would be sheer idiocy. “You’re right.”

  “You can help me and the moolie carry water, gancho,” Lopen said. “We’re a team now. Go on every run.”

  Kaladin nodded. “All right.”

  Rock eyed him.

  “If I’m feeling too weak at the end of the permanent bridges, I’ll go back. I promise.”

  Rock nodded reluctantly. The men marched under the bridge to the staging area, and Kaladin joined Lopen and Dabbid, filling waterskins.

  Kaladin stood at the edge of the precipice, hands clasped behind his back, sandaled toes at the very edge of the cliff. The chasm stared up at him, but he did not meet its gaze. He was focused on the battle being waged on the next plateau.

  This approach had been an easy one; they’d arrived at the same time as the Parshendi. Instead of bothering to kill bridgemen, the Parshendi had taken a defensive position in the center of the plateau, around the chrysalis. Now Sadeas’s men fought them.

  Kaladin’s brow was slick with sweat from the day’s heat, and he still felt a lingering exhaustion from his sickness. Yet it wasn’t nearly as bad as it should have been. The surgeon’s son was baffled.

  For the moment, the soldier overruled the surgeon. He was transfixed by the battle. Alethi spearmen in leathers and breastplates pressed a curved line against the Parshendi warriors. Most Parshendi used battle-axes or hammers, though a few wielded swords or clubs. They all had that red-orange armor growing from their skin, and they fought in pairs, singing all the while.

  It was the worst kind of battle, the kind that was close. Often, you’d lose far fewer men in a skirmish where your enemies quickly gained the upper hand. When that happened, your commander would order the retreat to cut his losses. But close battles…they were brutal, blood-soaked things. Watching the fighting-the bodies dropped to the rocks, the weapons flashing, the men pushed off the plateau-reminded him of his first fights as a spearman. His commander had been shocked at how easily Kaladin dealt with seeing blood. Kaladin’s father would have been shocked at how easily Kaladin spilled it.

  There was a big difference between his battles in Alethkar and the fights on the Shattered Plains. There, he’d been surrounded by the worst-or at least worst-trained-soldiers in Alethkar. Men who didn’t hold their lines. And yet, for all their disorder, those fights had made sense to him. These here on the Shattered Plains still did not.

  That had been his miscalculation. He’d changed battlefield tactics before understanding them. He would not make that mistake again.

  Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, joined by Sigzil. The thick-limbed Horneater made for quite a contrast to the short, quiet Azish man. Sigzil’s skin was a deep brown-not true black, like some parshmen’s. He tended to keep to himself.

  “Is bad battle,” Rock said, folding his arms. “The soldiers will not be happy, whether or not they win.”

  Kaladin nodded absently, listening to the yells, screams, and curses. “Why do they fight, Rock?”

  “For money,” Rock said. “And for vengeance. You should know this thing. Is it not your king who Parshendi killed?”

  “Oh, I understand why we fight,” Kaladin said. “But the Parshendi. Why do they fight?”

  Rock grinned. “Is because they don’t very much like the idea of being beheaded for killing your king, I should think! Very unaccommodating of them.”

  Kaladin smiled, though he found mirth unnatural while watching men die. He had been trained too long by his father for any death to leave him unmoved. “Perhaps. But, then, why do they fight for the gemhearts? Their numbers are dwindling because of skirmishes like these.”

  “You know this thing?” Rock asked.

  “They raid less frequently than they used to,” Kaladin said. “People talk about it in camp. And they don’t strike as close to the Alethi side as they once did.”

  Rock nodded thoughtfully. “It seems logical. Ha! Perhaps we will soon win this fight and be going home.”

  “No,” Sigzil said softly. He had a very formal way of speaking, with barely a hint of an accent. What language did the Azish speak, anyway? Their kingdom was so distant that Kaladin had only ever met one other. “I doubt that. And I can tell you why they fight, Kaladin.”

  “Really?”

  “They must have Soulcasters. They need the gemstones for the same reason we do. To make food.”

  “It sounds reasonable,” Kaladin said, hands still clasped behind his back, feet in a wide stance. Parade rest still felt natural to him. “Just conjecture, but a reasonable one. Let me ask you something else, then. Why can’t bridgemen have shields?”

  “Because this thing makes us too slow,” Rock said.

  “No,” Sigzil said. “They could send bridgemen with shields out in front of the bridges, running in front of us. It wouldn’t slow anyone down. Yes, you would have to field more bridgemen-but you’d save enough lives with those shields to make up for the larger roster.”

  Kaladin nodded. “Sadeas fields more of us than he needs already. In most
cases, more bridges land than he needs.”

  “But why?” Sigzil asked.

  “Because we make good targets,” Kaladin said softly, understanding. “We’re put out in front to draw Parshendi attention.”

  “Of course we are,” Rock said, shrugging. “Armies always do these things. The poorest and the least trained go first.”

  “I know,” Kaladin said, “but usually, they’re at least given some measure of protection. Don’t you see? We’re not just an expendable initial wave. We’re bait. We’re exposed, so the Parshendi can’t help but fire at us. It allows the regular soldiers to approach without being hurt. The Parshendi archers are aiming at the bridgemen.”

  Rock frowned.

  “Shields would make us less tempting,” Kaladin said. “That’s why he forbids them.”

  “Perhaps,” Sigzil said from the side, thoughtful. “But it seems foolish to waste troops.”

  “Actually, it isn’t foolish,” Kaladin said. “If you have to repeatedly attack fortified positions, you can’t afford to lose your trained troops. Don’t you see? Sadeas has only a limited number of trained men. But untrained ones are easy to find. Each arrow that strikes down a bridgeman is one that doesn’t hit a soldier you’ve spent a great deal of money outfitting and training. That’s why it’s better for Sadeas to field a large number of bridgemen, rather than a smaller-but protected-number.”

  He should have seen it earlier. He had been distracted by how important bridgemen were to the battles. If the bridges didn’t arrive at the chasms, then the army couldn’t cross. But each bridge crew was kept well stocked with bodies, and twice as many bridge crews were sent on an assault as were needed.

  Seeing a bridge fall must give the Parshendi a great sense of satisfaction, and they usually got to drop two or three bridges on every bad chasm run. Sometimes more. So long as bridgemen were dying, and the Parshendi didn’t spend their time firing on soldiers, Sadeas had reason to keep the bridgemen vulnerable. The Parshendi should have seen through it, but it was very hard to turn your arrow away from the unarmored man carrying the siege equipment. The Parshendi were said to be unsophisticated fighters. Indeed, watching the battle on the other plateau-studying it, focusing-he saw that was true.