The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  “It’s not about Alethkar! It’s about you! Storm it, you’re supposed to be better than the others!” Tears dripped from Kaladin’s chin.

  Amaram looked guilty suddenly, as if he knew what Kaladin had said was true. He turned away, waving to the stormwarden. The man turned from the brazier, holding something he’d been heating in the coals. A small branding iron.

  “It’s all an act?” Kaladin asked. “The honorable brightlord who cares about his men? Lies? All of it?”

  “This is for my men,” Amaram said. He took the Shardblade from the cloth, holding it in his hand. The gemstone at its pommel let out a flash of white light. “You can’t begin to understand the weights I carry, spearman.” Amaram’s voice lost some of its calm tone of reason. He sounded defensive. “I can’t worry about the lives of a few darkeyed spearmen when thousands of people may be saved by my decision.”

  The stormwarden stepped up to Kaladin, positioning the branding iron. The glyphs, reversed, read sas nahn. A slave’s brand.

  “You came for me,” Amaram said, limping to the door, stepping around Reesh’s body. “For saving my life, I spare yours. Five men telling the same story would have been believed, but a single slave will be ignored. The warcamp will be told that you didn’t try to help your fellows-but you didn’t try to stop them, either. You fled and were captured by my guard.”

  Amaram hesitated by the door, resting the blunt edge of the stolen Shardblade on his shoulder. The guilt was still there in his eyes, but he grew hard, covering it. “You are being discharged as a deserter and branded as a slave. But you are spared death by my mercy.”

  He opened the door and walked out.

  The branding iron fell, searing Kaladin’s fate into his skin. He let out a final, ragged scream.

  Interludes

  Interlude 7

  Baxil

  Baxil hastened down the lavish palace corridor, clutching the bulky bag of tools. A sound like a footfall came from behind him and he jumped, spinning. He didn’t see anything. The corridor was empty, a golden carpet lining the floor, mirrors on the walls, arched ceiling inlaid with elaborate mosaics.

  “Would you stop that?” Av said, walking beside him. “Every time you jump I nearly cuff you one out of surprise.”

  “I can’t help it,” Baxil said. “Shouldn’t we be doing this at night?”

  “Mistress knows what she’s doing,” Av said. Like Baxil, Av was Emuli, with dark skin and hair. But the taller man was far more self-confident. He sauntered down the halls, acting as if they’d been invited, thick-bladed sword slung in a sheath over his shoulder.

  If the Prime Kadasix may provide, Baxil thought, I’d rather Av never have to draw that weapon. Thank you.

  Their mistress walked ahead of them, the only other person in the hallway. She wasn’t Emuli-she didn’t even seem Makabaki, though she had dark skin and long, beautiful black hair. She had eyes like a Shin, but she was tall and lean, like an Alethi. Av thought she was a mixed breed. Or so he said when they dared talk about such things. The mistress had good ears. Strangely good ears.

  She stopped at the next intersection. Baxil caught himself glancing over his shoulder again. Av elbowed him, but he couldn’t help looking. Yes, the mistress claimed that the palace servants would be busy getting the new guest wing ready, but this was the home of Ashno of Sages himself. One of the richest and holiest men in all of Emul. He had hundreds of servants. What if one of them walked down this hallway?

  The two men joined their mistress at the intersection. He forced his eyes forward so he wouldn’t keep looking over his shoulder, but then found himself staring at the mistress. It was dangerous, being employed by a woman as beautiful as she was, with that long black hair, worn free, hanging down to her waist. She never wore a proper woman’s robe, or even a dress or skirt. Always trousers, usually sleek and tight, a thin-bladed sword at her hip. Her eyes were so faintly violet they were almost white.

  She was amazing. Wonderful, intoxicating, overwhelming.

  Av elbowed him in the ribs again. Baxil jumped, then glared at his cousin, rubbing his belly.

  “Baxil,” the mistress said. “My tools.”

  He opened the bag, handing over a folded tool belt. It clinked as she took it, not looking at him, then she strode down the hallway to their left.

  Baxil watched, uncomfortable. This was the Hallowed Hall, the place where a wealthy man placed images of his Kadasix for reverence. The mistress walked up to the first piece of art. The painting depicted Epan, Lady of Dreams. It was beautiful, a masterpiece of gold leaf on black canvas.

  The mistress took a knife from her bundle and slashed the painting down the front. Baxil cringed, but said nothing. He’d almost gotten used to the casual way she destroyed art, though he was baffled by it. She did pay the two of them very well, however.

  Av leaned back against the wall, picking his teeth with a fingernail. Baxil tried to imitate his relaxed pose. The large hallway was lit with topaz chips set in beautiful chandeliers, but they made no move to take them. The mistress did not approve of stealing.

  “I’ve been thinking of seeking the Old Magic,” Baxil said, partially to keep himself from cringing as the mistress moved on to gouge out the eyes of a fine bust.

  Av snorted. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Baxil said. “Seems like something to do with myself. I’ve never sought it, you know, and they say every man gets one chance. Ask a boon of the Nightwatcher. Have you used yours?”

  “Nah,” Av said. “Don’t fancy making the trip all the way to the Valley. Besides, my brother went. Came back with two numb hands. Never could feel anything with them again.”

  “What was his boon?” Baxil asked as the mistress wrapped up a vase with a cloth, then quietly shattered it on the floor and crushed the pieces.

  “Don’t know,” Av said. “He never said. Seemed embarrassed. Probably asked for something silly, like a good haircut.” Av smirked.

  “I was thinking I’d make myself more useful,” Baxil said. “Ask for courage, you know?”

  “If you want,” Av replied. “I figure there are better ways than the Old Magic. You never know what kind of curse you’ll end up with.”

  “I could phrase my request perfectly,” Baxil said.

  “Doesn’t work that way,” Av said. “It’s not a game, no matter how the stories try to put it. The Nightwatcher doesn’t trick you or twist your words. You ask a boon. She gives what she feels you deserve, then gives you a curse to go along with it. Sometimes related, sometimes not.”

  “And you’re an expert?” Baxil asked. The mistress was slashing another painting. “I thought you said you never went.”

  “I didn’t,” Av said. “On account of my father going, my mother going, and each of my brothers going. A few got what they wanted. Most all of them regretted the curse, save my father. He got a heap of good cloth; sold to keep us from starving during the lurnip famine a few decades ago.”

  “What was his curse?” Baxil said.

  “Saw the world upside down from then on.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Av said. “Twisted all about. Like people walk on the ceilings and the sky was underneath him. Said he got used to it pretty quickly, though, and didn’t really think it a curse by the time he died.”

  Even thinking about that curse made Baxil feel sick. He looked down at his sack of tools. If he weren’t such a coward, would he-maybe-be able to convince the mistress to see him as something more than just hired muscle?

  If the Prime Kadasix could provide, he thought, it would be very nice if I could know the right thing to do. Thank you.

  The mistress returned, hair somewhat disheveled. She held out a hand. “Padded mallet, Baxil. There’s a full statue back there.”

  He responded, pulling the mallet out of the sack and handing it to her.

  “Perhaps I should get myself a Shardblade,” she said absently, putting the tool up on her shoulder. “But that might make this too easy.
”

  “I wouldn’t mind if it were too easy, mistress,” Baxil noted.

  She sniffed, walking back down the hallway. Soon she began to pound on a statue at the far end, breaking off its arms. Baxil winced. “Someone’s going to hear that.”

  “Yeah,” Av said. “Probably why she waited to do it last.”

  At least the pounding was muffled by the padding. They had to be the only thieves who sneaked into the homes of rich men without taking anything.

  “Why does she do this, Av?” Baxil found himself asking.

  “Don’t know. Maybe you should ask her.”

  “I thought you said I should never do that!”

  “Depends,” Av said. “How attached to your limbs are you?”

  “Rather attached.”

  “Well, if you ever want that changed, start asking the mistress prying questions. Until then, shut up.”

  Baxil said nothing further. The Old Magic, he thought. It could change me. I will go looking for it.

  Knowing his luck, though, he wouldn’t be able to find it. He sighed, resting back against the wall as muted thuds continued to come from the mistress’s direction.

  Interlude 8

  Geranid

  “I’m thinking of changing my Calling,” Ashir said from behind.

  Geranid nodded absently as she worked on her equations. The small stone room smelled sharply of spices. Ashir was trying another new experiment. It involved some kind of curry powder and a rare Shin fruit that he’d caramelized. Something like that. She could hear it sizzling on his new fabrial hotplate.

  “I’m tired of cooking,” Ashir continued. He had a soft, kindly voice. She loved him for that. Partially because he liked to talk-and if you were going to have someone talk while you were attempting to think, they might as well have a soft, kindly voice.

  “I don’t have passion for it as I once did,” he continued. “Besides, what good will a cook be in the Spiritual Realm?”

  “Heralds need food,” she said absently, scratching out a line on her writing board, then scribbling another line of numbers beneath it.

  “Do they?” Ashir asked. “I’ve never been convinced. Oh, I’ve read the speculations, but it just doesn’t seem rational to me. The body must be fed in the Physical Realm, but the spirit exists in a completely different state.”

  “A state of ideals,” she replied. “So, you could create ideal foods, perhaps.”

  “Hmm…What would be the fun in that? No experimentation.”

  “I could do without,” she said, leaning forward to inspect the room’s hearth, where two flamespren danced on the logs’ fire. “If it meant never again having to eat something like that green soup you made last month.”

  “Ah,” he said, sounding wistful. “That was something, wasn’t it? Completely revolting, yet made entirely from appetizing ingredients.” He seemed to consider it a personal triumph. “I wonder if they eat in the Cognitive Realm. Is a food there what it sees itself as being? I’ll have to read and see if anyone has ever eaten while visiting Shadesmar.”

  Geranid responded with a noncommittal grunt, getting out her calipers and leaning closer to the heat to measure the flamespren. She frowned, then made another notation.

  “Here, love,” Ashir said, walking over, then knelt beside her and offered a small bowl. “Give this a try. I think you’ll like it.”

  She eyed the contents. Bits of bread covered with a red sauce. It was men’s food, but they were both ardents, so that didn’t matter.

  From outside came the sounds of waves gently lapping against the rocks. They were on a tiny Reshi island, technically sent to provide for the religious needs of any Vorin visitors. Some travelers did come to them for that, occasionally even some of the Reshi. But really, this was a way of getting away and focusing on their experiments. Geranid with her spren studies. Ashir with his chemistry-through cooking, of course, as it allowed him to eat the results.

  The portly man smiled affably, head shaven, grey beard neatly squared off. They both kept to the rules of their stations, despite their seclusion. One did not write the ending of a lifetime of faith with a sloppy last chapter.

  “No green,” she noted, taking the bowl. “That’s a good sign.”

  “Hmmm,” he said, leaning down and adjusting his spectacles to inspect her notations. “Yes. It really was fascinating the way that Shin vegetable caramelized. I’m so pleased that Gom brought it to me. You’ll have to go over my notes. I think I got the figures right, but I could be wrong.” He wasn’t as strong at mathematics as he was at theory. Conveniently, Geranid was just the opposite.

  She took a spoon and tried the food. She didn’t wear a sleeve on her safehand-another one of the advantages of being an ardent. The food was actually quite good. “Did you try this, Ashir?”

  “Nope,” he said, still looking over her figures. “You’re the brave one, my dear.”

  She sniffed. “It’s terrible.”

  “I can see that from how you’re taking another large bite at this moment.”

  “Yes, but you’d hate it. No fruit. Is this fish you added?”

  “A dried handful of the little minnows I caught outside this morning. Still don’t know what species they are. Tasty, though.” He hesitated, then looked up at the hearth and its spren. “Geranid, what is this?”

  “I think I’ve had a breakthrough,” she said softly.

  “But the figures,” he said, tapping the writing board. “You said they were erratic, and they still are.”

  “Yes,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the flamespren. “But I can predict when they will be erratic and when they won’t be.”

  He looked at her, frowning.

  “The spren change when I measure them, Ashir,” she said. “Before I measure, they dance and vary in size, luminosity, and shape. But when I make a notation, they immediately freeze in their current state. Then they remain that way permanently, so far as I can tell.”

  “What does it mean?” he asked.

  “I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me. I have the figures. You’ve got the imagination, dear one.”

  He scratched at his beard, sitting back, and produced a bowl and spoon for himself. He’d sprinkled dried fruit over his portion; Geranid was half convinced he’d joined the ardentia because of his sweet tooth. “What happens if you erase the figures?” he asked.

  “The spren go back to being variable,” she said. “Length, shape, luminosity.”

  He took a bite of his mush. “Go into the other room.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it. Take your writing board.”

  She sighed, standing up, joints popping. Was she getting that old? Starlight, but they’d spent a long time out on this island. She walked to the other room, where their cot was.

  “What now?” she called.

  “I’m going to measure the spren with your calipers,” he called back. “I’ll take three measurements in a row. Only write down one of the figures I give you. Don’t tell me which one you’re writing down.”

  “All right,” she called back. The window was open, and she looked out over a darkening, glassy expanse of water. The Reshi Sea wasn’t as shallow as the Purelake, but it was quite warm most of the time, dotted with tropical islands and the occasional monster of a greatshell.

  “Three inches, seven tenths,” Ashir called.

  She didn’t write down the figure.

  “Two inches, eight tenths.”

  She ignored the number this time too, but got her chalk ready to write-as quietly as possible-the next numbers he called out.

  “Two inches, three ten-Wow.”

  “What?” she called.

  “It stopped changing sizes. I assume you wrote down that third number?”

  She frowned, walking back into their small living chamber. Ashir’s hotplate sat on a low table to her right. After the Reshi style, there were no chairs, just cushions, and all the furniture was flat and long, rather than tall.

  She appr
oached the hearth. One of the two flamespren danced about atop a log, shape changing and length flickering like the flames themselves. The other had taken on a far more stable shape. Its length no longer changed, though its form did slightly.

  It seemed locked somehow. It almost looked like a little person as it danced over the fire. She reached up and erased her notation. It immediately began pulsing and changing erratically like the other one.

  “Wow,” Ashir repeated. “It’s as if it knows, somehow, that it has been measured. As if merely defining its form traps it somehow. Write down a number.”

  “What number?”

  “Any number,” he said. “But one that might be the size of a flamespren.”

  She did so. Nothing happened.

  “You have to actually measure it,” he said, tapping his spoon softly against the side of his bowl. “No pretending.”

  “I wonder at the precision of the instrument,” she said. “If I use one that is less precise, will that give the spren more flexibility? Or is there a threshold, an accuracy beyond which it finds itself bound?” She sat down, feeling daunted. “I need to research this more. Try it for luminosity, then compare that to my general equation of flamespren luminosity as compared to the fire they’re drawn to dance around.”

  Ashir grimaced. “That, my dear, sounds a lot like math.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then I shall make you a snack to occupy you while you create new marvels of calculation and genius.” He smiled, kissing her forehead. “You just found something wonderful,” he said more softly. “I don’t know what it means yet, but it might very well change everything we understand about spren. And maybe even about fabrials.”

  She smiled, turning back to her equations. And for once, she didn’t mind at all as he began chatting about his ingredients, working out a new formula for some sugary confection he was sure she’d love.