The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  In a moment, he was past them, continuing north and west to soar across the Sea of Spears, a shallow inland sea where broken fingers of rock jutted above the water. He passed over Alethkar, catching a glimpse of the great city of Kholinar, built amid formations of rock like fins rising from the stone. Then he turned southward, away from anything he knew. He crested majestic mountains, densely populated at their tips, with villages clustered near vents that emitted steam or lava. The Horneater Peaks?

  He left them with rain and winds, rumbling down into foreign lands. He passed cities and open plains, villages and twisting waterways. There were many armies. Kaladin passed tents pulled flat against the leeward sides of rock formations, stakes driven into the rock to hold them taut, men hidden inside. He passed hillsides where soldiers huddled in clefts. He passed large wooden wagons, built to house lighteyes while at war. How many wars was the world fighting? Was there nowhere that was at peace?

  He took a path to the southwest, blowing toward a city built in long troughs in the ground that looked like giant claw marks ripped across the landscape. He was over it in a flash, passing a hinterland where the stone itself was ribbed and rippled, like frozen waves of water. The people in this kingdom were dark-skinned, like Sigzil.

  The land went on and on. Hundreds of cities. Thousands of villages. People with faintly blue veins beneath their skin. A place where the pressure of the approaching highstorm blew water out of spouts in the ground. A city where people lived in gigantic, hollowed-out stalactites hanging beneath a titanic sheltered ridge.

  Westward he blew. The land was so vast. So enormous. So many different people. It dazzled his mind. War seemed far less prevalent in the West than it was in the East, and that comforted him, but still he was troubled. Peace seemed a scarce commodity in the world.

  Something drew his attention. Strange flashes of light. He blew toward them at the forefront of the storm. What were those lights? They came in bursts, forming the strangest patterns. Almost like physical things that he could reach out and touch, spherical bubbles of light that vibrated with spikes and troughs.

  Kaladin crossed a strange city laid out in a triangular pattern, with tall peaks rising like sentries at the corners and center. The flashes of light were coming from a building on the central peak. Kaladin knew he would pass quickly, for as the storm, he could not retreat. Ever westward he blew.

  He threw open the door with his wind, entering a long hallway with bright red tile walls, mosaic murals that he passed too quickly to make out. He rustled the skirts of tall, golden-haired serving women who carried trays of food or steaming towels. They called in a strange language, perhaps wondering who had left a window unbarred in a highstorm.

  The flashes of light came from directly ahead. So transfixing. Brushing past a pretty gold-and red-haired woman who huddled frightened in a corner, Kaladin burst through a door. He had one brief glimpse of what lay beyond.

  A man stood over two corpses. His pale head shaved, his clothing white, the murderer held a long, thin sword in one hand. He looked up from his victims and almost seemed to see Kaladin. He had large Shin eyes.

  It was too late to see anything more. Kaladin blew out the window, throwing shutters wide and streaking into the night.

  More cities, mountains, and forests passed in a blur. At his advent, plants curled up their leaves, rockbuds closed their shells, and shrubs withdrew their branches. Before long, he neared the western ocean.

  CHILD OF TANAVAST. CHILD OF HONOR. CHILD OF ONE LONG SINCE DEPARTED. The sudden voice shook Kaladin; he floundered in the air.

  THE OOATHPACT WAS SHATTERED.

  The booming sound made the stormwall itself vibrate. Kaladin hit the ground, separating from the storm. He skidded to a stop, feet throwing up sprays of water. Stormwinds crashed into him, but he was enough a part of them that they neither tossed nor shook him.

  MEN RIDE THE STORMS NO LONGER. The voice was thunder, crashing in the air. THE OOATHPACT IS BROKEN, CHILD OF HONOR.

  “I don’t understand!” Kaladin screamed into the tempest.

  A face formed before him, the face he had seen before, the aged face as wide as the sky, its eyes full of stars.

  ODIUM COMES. MOST DANGEROUS OF ALL THE SIXTEEN. YOU WILL NOW GO.

  Something blew against him. “Wait!” Kaladin said. “Why is there so much war? Must we always fight?” He wasn’t sure why he asked. The questions simply came out.

  The storm rumbled, like a thoughtful aged father. The face vanished, shattering into droplets of water.

  More softly, the voice answered, ODIUM REIGNS.

  Kaladin gasped as he awoke. He was surrounded by dark figures, holding him down against the hard stone floor. He yelled, old reflexes taking over. Instinctively, he snapped his hands outward to the sides, each grabbing an ankle and jerking to pull two assailants off balance.

  They cursed, crashing to the ground. Kaladin used the moment to twist while bringing an arm up in a sweep. He knocked free the hands pushing him down, rocked and threw himself forward, lurching into the man directly in front of him.

  Kaladin rolled over him, tucking and coming up on his feet, free of his captives. He spun, flinging sweat from his brow. Where was his spear? He clutched for the knife at his belt.

  No knife. No spear.

  “Storm you, Kaladin!” That was Teft.

  Kaladin raised a hand to his breast, breathing deliberately, dispelling the strange dream. Bridge Four. He was with Bridge Four. The king’s stormwardens had predicted a highstorm in the early morning hours.

  “It’s all right,” he said to the cursing, twisting clump of bridgemen who had been holding him down. “What were you doing?”

  “You tried to go out in the storm,” Moash said accusingly, extricating himself. The only light was a single diamond sphere one of the men had set in the corner.

  “Ha!” Rock added, standing up and brushing himself off. “Had the door open to the rain, staring out, as if you’d been hit on the head with stone. We had to pull you back. Is not good for you to spend another two weeks sick in bed, eh?”

  Kaladin calmed himself. The riddens-the quiet rainfall at the trailing end of a highstorm-continued outside, drops sprinkling the roof.

  “You wouldn’t wake up,” Sigzil said. Kaladin glanced at the Azish man, sitting with his back to the stone wall. He hadn’t tried to hold Kaladin down. “You were having some kind of fever dream.”

  “I feel just fine,” Kaladin said. That wasn’t quite true; his head ached and he was exhausted. He took a deep breath and threw back his shoulders, trying to force the fatigue away.

  The sphere in the corner flickered. Then its light faded away, leaving them in darkness.

  “Storm it!” Moash muttered. “That eel Gaz. He’s been giving us dun spheres again.”

  Kaladin crossed the pitch-black barrack, stepping carefully. His headache faded away as he felt for the door. He pushed it open, letting in the faint light of an overcast morning.

  The winds were weak, but the rain still fell. He stepped out, and was shortly soaked through. The other bridgemen followed him out, and Rock tossed Kaladin a small chunk of soap. Like most of the others, Kaladin wore only his loincloth, and he lathered himself up in the cold downpour. The soap smelled of oil and was gritty with the sand suspended in it. No sweet, soft soaps for bridgemen.

  Kaladin tossed the bit of soap to Bisig, a thin bridgeman with an angular face. He took it gratefully-Bisig didn’t say much-and began to lather up as Kaladin let the rain wash the soap from his body and hair. To the side, Rock was using a bowl of water to shave and trim his Horneater beard, long on the sides and covering the cheeks, but clean below the lips and chin. It made an odd counterpoint to his head, which he shaved up the center, from directly above the eyebrows back. He trimmed the rest of his hair short.

  Rock’s hand was smooth and careful, and he didn’t so much as nick himself. Once finished, he stood up and waved to the men waiting behind him. One by one, he shaved any who wante
d it. He occasionally paused to sharpen the razor using his whetstone and leather strop.

  Kaladin raised his fingers to his own beard. He hadn’t been clean-shaven since he’d been in Amaram’s army, so long ago. He walked forward to join those waiting in line. When Kaladin’s time came, the large Horneater laughed. “Sit, my friend, sit! Is good you have come. Your face is more like scragglebark branches than a proper beard.”

  “Shave it clean,” Kaladin said, sitting down on the stump. “And I’d rather not have a strange pattern like yours.”

  “Ha!” Rock said, sharpening his razor. “You are a lowlander, my good friend. Is not right for you to wear a humaka’aban. I would have to thump you soundly if you tried this thing.”

  “I thought you said fighting was beneath you.”

  “Is allowed several important exceptions,” Rock said. “Now stop with your talking, unless you wish to be losing a lip.”

  Rock began by trimming the beard down, then lathered and shaved, starting at the left cheek. Kaladin had never let another shave him before; when he’d first gone to war, he’d been young enough that he’d barely needed to shave at all. He’d grown into doing it himself as he got older.

  Rock’s touch was deft, and Kaladin didn’t feel any nicks or cuts. In a few minutes, Rock stood back. Kaladin raised his fingers to his chin, touching smooth, sensitive skin. His face felt cold, strange to the touch. It took him back, transformed him-just a little-into the man he had been.

  Strange, how much difference a shave could make. I should have done this weeks ago.

  The riddens had turned to drizzle, heralding the storm’s last whispers. Kaladin stood up, letting the water wash bits of shorn hair from his chest. Baby-faced Dunny-the last of those waiting-sat down for his turn at being shaven. He hardly needed it at all.

  “The shave suits you,” a voice said. Kaladin turned to see Sigzil leaning against the wall of the barrack, just under the roof’s overhang. “Your face has strong lines. Square and firm, with a proud chin. We would call it a leader’s face among my people.”

  “I’m no lighteyes,” Kaladin said, spitting to the side.

  “You hate them so much.”

  “I hate their lies,” Kaladin said. “I hate it that I used to believe they were honorable.”

  “And would you cast them down?” Sigzil asked, sounding curious. “Rule in their place?”

  “No.”

  This seemed to surprise Sigzil. To the side, Syl finally appeared, having finished frolicking in the winds of the highstorm. He always worried-just a little-that she’d ride away with them and leave him.

  “Have you no thirst to punish those who have treated you so?” Sigzil asked.

  “Oh, I’m happy to punish them,” Kaladin said. “But I have no desire to take their place, nor do I wish to join them.”

  “I’d join them in a heartbeat,” Moash said, walking up behind. He folded his arms across his lean, well-muscled chest. “If I were in charge, things would change. The lighteyes would work the mines and the fields. They would run bridges and die by Parshendi arrows.”

  “Won’t happen,” Kaladin said. “But I won’t blame you for trying.”

  Sigzil nodded thoughtfully. “Have either of you ever heard of the land of Babatharnam?”

  “No,” Kaladin said, glancing toward the camp. The soldiers were moving about now. More than a few were washing too. “That a funny name for a country, though.”

  Sigzil sniffed. “Personally, I always thought Alethkar sounded like a ridiculous name. I guess it depends on where you were raised.”

  “So why bring up Babab…” Moash said.

  “Babatharnam,” Sigzil said. “I visited there once, with my master. They have very peculiar trees. The entire plant-trunk and all-lies down when a highstorm approaches, as if built on hinges. I was thrown in prison three times during our visit there. The Babath are quite particular about how you speak. My master was quite displeased at the amount he had to pay to free me. Of course, I think they were using any excuse to imprison a foreigner, as they knew my master had deep pockets.” He smiled wistfully. “One of those imprisonments was my fault. The women there, you see, have these patterns of veins that sit shallowly beneath their skin. Some visitors find it unnerving, but I found the patterns beautiful. Almost irresistible…”

  Kaladin frowned. Hadn’t he seen something like that in his dream?

  “I bring up Babath because they have a curious system of rule there,” Sigzil continued. “You see, the elderly are given office. The older you are, the more authority you have. Everyone gets a chance to rule, if they live long enough. The king is called the Most Ancient.”

  “Sounds fair,” Moash said, walking over to join Sigzil beneath the overhang. “Better than deciding who rules based on eye color.”

  “Ah yes,” Sigzil said. “The Babath are very fair. Currently, the Monavakah Dynasty reigns.”

  “How can you have a dynasty if you choose your leaders based on their age?” Kaladin asked.

  “It’s actually quite easy,” Sigzil said. “You just execute anyone who gets old enough to challenge you.”

  Kaladin felt a chill. “They do that?”

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Sigzil said. “There is a great deal of unrest in Babatharnam. It was dangerous to visit when we did. The Monavakahs make very certain that their family members live the longest; for fifty years, no one outside their family has become Most Ancient. All others have fallen through assassination, exile, or death on the battlefield.”

  “That’s horrible,” Kaladin said.

  “I doubt many would disagree. But I mention these horrors for a purpose. You see, it has been my experience that no matter where you go, you will find some who abuse their power.” He shrugged. “Eye color is not so odd a method, compared to many others I have seen. If you were to overthrow the lighteyes and place yourselves in power, Moash, I doubt that the world would be a very different place. The abuses would still happen. Simply to other people.”

  Kaladin nodded slowly, but Moash shook his head. “No. I’d change the world, Sigzil. And I mean to.”

  “And how are you going to do that?” Kaladin asked, amused.

  “I came to this war to get myself a Shardblade,” Moash said. “And I still mean to do it, somehow.” He blushed, then turned away.

  “You joined up assuming they’d make you a spearman, didn’t you?” Kaladin asked.

  Moash hesitated, then nodded. “Some of those who joined with me did become soldiers, but most of us got sent to the bridge crews.” He glanced at Kaladin, expression growing dark. “This plan of yours had better work, lordling. Last time I ran away, I got a beating. I was told if I tried again, I’d get a slave’s mark instead.”

  “I never promised it would work, Moash. If you’ve got a better idea, go ahead and share it.”

  Moash hesitated. “Well, if you really do teach us the spear like you promised, then I guess I don’t care.”

  Kaladin glanced about, warily checking to see if Gaz or any bridgemen from other crews were nearby. “Keep quiet,” Kaladin muttered to Moash. “Don’t speak of that outside of the chasms.” The rain had almost stopped; soon the clouds would break.

  Moash glared at him, but remained silent.

  “You don’t really think they’d let you have a Shardblade, do you?” Sigzil said.

  “Any man can win a Shardblade.” Moash said. “Slave or free. Lighteyes or dark. It’s the law.”

  “Assuming they follow the law,” Kaladin said with a sigh.

  “I’ll do it somehow,” Moash repeated. He glanced to the side, where Rock was closing up his razor and wiping the rainwater from his bald head.

  The Horneater approached them. “I have heard of this place you spoke of, Sigzil,” Rock said. “Babatharnam. My cousin cousin cousin visited there one time. They have very tasty snails.”

  “That is a long distance to travel for a Horneater,” Sigzil noted.

  “Nearly same distance as for an Azish,”
Rock said. “Actually, much more, since you have such little legs!”

  Sigzil scowled.

  “I have seen your kind before,” Rock said, folding his arms.

  “What?” Sigzil asked. “Azish? We are not so rare.”

  “No, not your race,” Rock said. “Your type. What is it they are called? Visiting places around the land, telling others of what they have seen? A Worldsinger. Yes, is the right name. No?”

  Sigzil froze. Then he suddenly stood up straight and stalked away from the barrack without looking back.

  “Now why is he acting like this thing?” Rock asked. “I am not ashamed of being cook. Why is he ashamed of being Worldsinger?”

  “Worldsinger?” Kaladin asked.

  Rock shrugged. “I do not know much. Are strange people. Say they must travel to each kingdom and tell the people there of other kingdoms. Is a kind of storyteller, though they are thinking of themselves as much more.”

  “He’s probably some kind of brightlord in his country,” Moash said. “The way he talks. Wonder how he ended up with us cremlings.”

  “Hey,” Dunny said, joining them. “What’d you do to Sigzil? He promised to tell me about my homeland.”

  “Homeland?” Moash said to the younger man. “You’re from Alethkar.”

  “Sigzil said these violet eyes of mine aren’t native to Alethkar. He thinks I must have Veden blood in me.”

  “Your eyes aren’t violet,” Moash said.

  “Sure they are,” Dunny said. “You can see it in bright sunlight. They’re just really dark.”

  “Ha!” Rock said. “If you are from Vedenar, we are cousins! The Peaks are near Vedenar. Sometimes the people there have good red hair, like us!”

  “Be glad that someone didn’t mistake your eyes for red, Dunny,” Kaladin said. “Moash, Rock, go gather your subsquads and pass the word to Teft and Skar. I want the men oiling their vests and sandals against the humidity.”