The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  “This is a Trailman’s flute,” Hoid said, inspecting the length of dark wood. “It is meant to be used by a storyteller, for him to play while he is telling a story.”

  “You mean to accompany a storyteller. Being played by someone else while he speaks.”

  “Actually, I meant what I said.”

  “How would a man tell a story while playing the flute?”

  Hoid raised an eyebrow, then lifted the flute to his lips. He played it differently from flutes Kaladin had seen-instead of holding it down in front of him, Hoid held it out to the side and blew across its top. He tested a few notes. They had the same melancholy tone that Kaladin had heard before.

  “This story,” Hoid said, “is about Derethil and the Wandersail.”

  He began to play. The notes were quicker, sharper, than the ones he’d played earlier. They almost seemed to tumble over one another, scurrying out of the flute like children racing one another to be first. They were beautiful and crisp, rising and falling scales, intricate as a woven rug.

  Kaladin found himself transfixed. The tune was powerful, almost demanding. As if each note were a hook, flung out to spear Kaladin’s flesh and hold him near.

  Hoid stopped abruptly, but the notes continued to echo in the chasm, coming back as he spoke. “Derethil is well known in some lands, though I have heard him spoken of less here in the East. He was a king during the shadowdays, the time before memory. A powerful man. Commander of thousands, leader of tens of thousands. Tall, regal, blessed with fair skin and fairer eyes. He was a man to envy.”

  Just as the echoes faded below, Hoid began to play again, picking up the rhythm. He actually seemed to continue just where the echoing notes grew too soft, as if there had never been a break in the music. The notes grew more smooth, suggesting a king walking through court with his attendants. As Hoid played, eyes closed, he leaned forward toward the fire. The air he blew over the flute churned the smoke, stirring it.

  The music grew softer. The smoke swirled, and Kaladin thought he could make out the face of a man in the patterns of smoke, a man with a pointed chin and lofty cheekbones. It wasn’t really there, of course. Just imagination. But the haunting song and the swirling smoke seemed to encourage his imagination.

  “Derethil fought the Voidbringers during the days of the Heralds and Radiants,” Hoid said, eyes still closed, flute just below his lips, the song echoing in the chasm and seeming to accompany his words. “When there was finally peace, he found he was not content. His eyes always turned westward, toward the great open sea. He commissioned the finest ship men had ever known, a majestic vessel intended to do what none had dared before: sail the seas during a highstorm.”

  The echoes tapered off, and Hoid began playing again, as if alternating with an invisible partner. The smoke swirled, rising in the air, twisting in the wind of Hoid’s breath. And Kaladin almost thought he could see an enormous ship in a shipyard, with a sail as large as a building, secured to an arrowlike hull. The melody became quick and clipped, as if to imitate the sounds of mallets pounding and saws cutting.

  “Derethil’s goal,” Hoid paused and said, “was to seek the origin of the Voidbringers, the place where they had been spawned. Many called him a fool, yet he could not hold himself back. He named the vessel the Wandersail and gathered a crew of the bravest of sailors. Then, on a day when a highstorm brewed, this ship cast off. Riding out into the ocean, the sail hung wide, like arms open to the stormwinds….”

  The flute was at Hoid’s lips in a second and he stirred the fire by kicking at a piece of rockbud shell. Sparks of flame rose in the air and smoke puffed, swirling as Hoid rotated his head down and pointed the flute’s holes at the smoke. The song became violent, tempestuous, notes falling unexpectedly and trilling with quick undulations. Scales rippled into high notes, where they screeched airily.

  And Kaladin saw it in his mind’s eye. The massive ship suddenly miniscule before the awesome power of a highstorm. Blown, carried out into the endless sea. What had this Derethil hoped or expected to find? A highstorm on land was terrible enough. But on the sea?

  The sounds bounced off the echoing walls below. Kaladin found himself sinking down to the rocks, watching the swirling smoke and rising flames. Seeing the tiny ship captured and held within a furious maelstrom.

  Eventually, Hoid’s music slowed, and the violent echoes faded, leaving a much gentler song. Like lapping waves.

  “The Wandersail was nearly destroyed in the crash, but Derethil and most of his sailors survived. They found themselves on a ring of small islands surrounding an enormous whirlpool, where, it is said, the ocean drains. Derethil and his men were greeted by a strange people with long, limber bodies who wore robes of single color and shells in their hair unlike any that grow back on Roshar.

  “These people took the survivors in, fed them, and nursed them back to health. During his weeks of recovery, Derethil studied the strange people, who called themselves the Uvara, the People of the Great Abyss. They lived curious lives. Unlike the people in Roshar-who constantly argue- the Uvara always seemed to agree. From childhood, there were no questions. Each and every person went about his duty.”

  Hoid began the music again, letting the smoke rise unhindered. Kaladin thought he could see in it a people, industrious, always working. A building rose among them with a figure at the window, Derethil, watching. The music was calming, curious.

  “One day,” Hoid said, “while Derethil and his men were sparring to regain strength, a young serving girl brought them refreshment. She tripped on an uneven stone, dropping the goblets to the floor and shattering them. In a flash, the other Uvara descended on the hapless child and slaughtered her in a brutal way. Derethil and his men were so stunned that by the time they regained their wits, the child was dead. Angry, Derethil demanded to know the cause of the unjustified murder. One of the other natives explained. ‘Our emperor will not suffer failure.’”

  The music began again, sorrowful, and Kaladin shivered. He witnessed the girl being bludgeoned to death with rocks, and the proud form of Derethil bowing above her fallen body.

  Kaladin knew that sorrow. The sorrow of failure, of letting someone die when he should have been able to do something. So many people he loved had died.

  He had a reason for that now. He’d drawn the ire of the Heralds and the Almighty. It had to be that, didn’t it?

  He knew he should be getting back to Bridge Four. But he couldn’t pull himself away. He hung on the storyteller’s words.

  “As Derethil began to pay more attention,” Hoid said, his music echoing softly to accompany him, “he saw other murders. These Uvara, these People of the Great Abyss, were prone to astonishing cruelty. If one of their members did something wrong-something the slightest bit untoward or unfavorable-the others would slaughter him or her. Each time he asked, Derethil’s caretaker gave him the same answer. ‘Our emperor will not suffer failure.’”

  The echoing music faded, but once again Hoid lifted his flute just as it grew too soft to hear. The melody grew solemn. Soft, quiet, like a lament for one who had passed. And yet it was edged with mystery, occasional quick bursts, hinting at secrets.

  Kaladin frowned as he watched the smoke spin, making what appeared to be a tower. Tall, thin, with an open structure at the top.

  “The emperor, Derethil discovered, resided in the tower on the eastern coast of the largest island among the Uvara.”

  Kaladin felt a chill. The smoke images were just from his mind, adding to the story, weren’t they? Had he really seen a tower before Hoid mentioned it?

  “Derethil determined that he needed to confront this cruel emperor. What kind of monster would demand that such an obviously peaceful people kill so often and so terribly? Derethil gathered his sailors, a heroic group, and they armed themselves. The Uvara did not try to stop them, though they watched with fright as the strangers stormed the emperor’s tower.”

  Hoid fell silent, and didn’t turn back to his flute. Instead, he let th
e music echo in the chasm. It seemed to linger this time. Long, sinister notes.

  “Derethil and his men came out of the tower a short time later, carrying a desiccated corpse in fine robes and jewelry. ‘This is your emperor?’ Derethil demanded. ‘We found him in the top room, alone.’ It appeared that the man had been dead for years, but nobody had dared enter his tower. They were too frightened of him.

  “When he showed the Uvara the dead body, they began to wail and weep. The entire island was cast into chaos, as the Uvara began to burn homes, riot, or fall to their knees in torment. Amazed and confused, Derethil and his men stormed the Uvara shipyards, where the Wandersail was being repaired. Their guide and caretaker joined them, and she begged to accompany them in their escape. So it was that Nafti joined the crew.

  “Derethil and his men set sail, and though the winds were still, they rode the Wandersail around the whirlpool, using the momentum to spin them out and away from the islands. Long after they left, they could see the smoke rising from the ostensibly peaceful lands. They gathered on the deck, watching, and Derethil asked Nafti the reason for the terrible riots.”

  Hoid fell silent, letting his words rise with the strange smoke, lost to the night.

  “Well?” Kaladin demanded. “What was her response?”

  “Holding a blanket around herself, staring with haunted eyes at her lands, she replied, ‘Do you not see, Traveling One? If the emperor is dead, and has been all these years, then the murders we committed are not his responsibility. They are our own.’”

  Kaladin sat back. Gone was the taunting, playful tone Hoid had used earlier. No more mockery. No more quick tongue intended to confuse. This story had come from within his heart, and Kaladin found he could not speak. He just sat, thinking of that island and the terrible things that had been done.

  “I think…” Kaladin finally replied, licking his dry lips, “I think that is cleverness.”

  Hoid raised an eyebrow, looking up from his flute.

  “Being able to remember a story like that,” Kaladin said, “to tell it with such care.”

  “Be wary of what you say,” Hoid said, smiling. “If all you need for cleverness is a good story, then I’ll find myself out of a job.”

  “Didn’t you say you were already out of a job?”

  “True. The king is finally without wit. I wonder what that makes him.”

  “Um… witless?” Kaladin said.

  “I’ll tell him you said that,” Hoid noted, eyes twinkling. “But I think it’s inaccurate. One can have a wit, but not a witless. What is a wit?”

  “I don’t know. Some kind of spren in your head, maybe, that makes you think?”

  Hoid cocked his head, then laughed. “Why, I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any.” He stood up, dusting off his black trousers.

  “Is the story true?” Kaladin asked, rising too.

  “Perhaps.”

  “But how would we know it? Did Derethil and his men return?”

  “Some stories say they did.”

  “But how could they? The highstorms only blow one direction.”

  “Then I guess the story is a lie.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, I said it. Fortunately, it’s the best kind of lie.”

  “And what kind is that?”

  “Why, the kind I tell, of course.” Hoid laughed, then kicked out the fire, grinding the last of the coals beneath his heel. It didn’t really seem there had been enough fuel to make the smoke Kaladin had seen.

  “What did you put in the fire?” Kaladin said. “To make that special smoke?”

  “Nothing. It was just an ordinary fire.”

  “But, I saw-”

  “What you saw belongs to you. A story doesn’t live until it is imagined in someone’s mind.”

  “What does the story mean, then?”

  “It means what you want it to mean,” Hoid said. “The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.”

  Kaladin frowned, looking westward, back toward the warcamps. They were alight now with spheres, lanterns, and candles. “It means taking responsibility,” Kaladin said. “The Uvara, they were happy to kill and murder, so long as they could blame the emperor. It wasn’t until they realized there was nobody to take the responsibility that they showed grief.”

  “That’s one interpretation,” Hoid said. “A fine one, actually. So what is it you don’t want to take responsibility for?”

  Kaladin started. “What?”

  “People see in stories what they’re looking for, my young friend.” He reached behind his boulder, pulling out a pack and slinging it on his shoulder. “I have no answers for you. Most days, I feel I never have had any answers. I’ve come to your land to chase an old acquaintance, but I end up spending most of my time hiding from him instead.”

  “You said… about me and responsibility…”

  “Just an idle comment, nothing more.” He reached over, laying a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “My comments are often idle. I never can get them to do any solid work. Would that I could make my words carry stones. That would be something to see.” He held out the dark wood flute. “Here. I’ve carried her for longer than you’d believe, were I to tell you the truth. Take her for yourself.”

  “But I don’t know how to play it!”

  “Then learn,” Hoid said, pressing the flute into Kaladin’s hand. “When you can make the music sing back at you, then you’ve mastered it.” He began to walk away. “And take good care of that blasted apprentice of mine. He really should have let me know he was still alive. Perhaps he feared I’d come to rescue him again.”

  “Apprentice?”

  “Tell him I graduate him,” Hoid said, still walking. “He’s a full Worldsinger now. Don’t let him get killed. I spent far too long trying to force some sense into that brain of his.”

  Sigzil, Kaladin thought. “I’ll give him the flute,” he called after Hoid.

  “No you won’t,” Hoid said, turning, walking backward as he left. “It’s a gift to you, Kaladin Stormblessed. I expect you to be able to play it when next we meet!”

  And with that, the storyteller turned and broke into a jog, heading off toward the warcamps. He didn’t move to go up into them, however. His shadowed figure turned to the south, as if he were intending to leave the camps. Where was he going?

  Kaladin looked down at the flute in his hand. It was heavier than he had expected. What kind of wood was it? He rubbed its smooth length, thinking.

  “I don’t like him,” Syl’s voice said suddenly, coming from behind. “He’s strange.”

  Kaladin spun to find her on the boulder, sitting where Hoid had been a moment ago.

  “Syl!” Kaladin said. “How long have you been here?”

  She shrugged. “You were watching the story. I didn’t want to interrupt.” She sat with hands in her lap, looking uncomfortable.

  “Syl-”

  “I’m behind what is happening to you,” she said, voice soft. “I’m doing it.”

  Kaladin frowned, stepping forward.

  “It’s both of us,” she said. “But without me, nothing would be changing in you. I’m… taking something from you. And giving something in return. It’s the way it used to work, though I can’t remember how or when. I just know that it was.”

  “I-”

  “Hush,” she said. “I’m talking.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m willing to stop it, if you want,” she said. “But I would go back to being as I was before. That scares me. Floating on the wind, never remembering anything for longer than a few minutes. It’s because of this tie between us that I can think again, that I can remember what and who I am. If we end it, I lose that.”

  She looked up at Kaladin, sorrowful.

  He looked into those eyes, then took a deep breath. “Come,” he said, turning, walking back down the peninsula.

  She flew over, becomin
g a ribbon of light, floating idly in the air beside his head. Soon they reached the place beneath the ridge leading to the warcamps. Kaladin turned north, toward Sadeas’s camp. The cremlings had retreated to their cracks and burrows, but many of the plants still continued to let their fronds float in the cool wind. When he passed, the grass pulled back in, looking like the fur of some black beast in the night, lit by Salas.

  What responsibility are you avoiding….

  He wasn’t avoiding responsibility. He took too much responsibility! Lirin had said it constantly, chastising Kaladin for feeling guilt over deaths he couldn’t have prevented.

  Though there was one thing he clung to. An excuse, perhaps, like the dead emperor. It was the soul of the wretch. Apathy. The belief that nothing was his fault, the belief that he couldn’t change anything. If a man was cursed, or if he believed he didn’t have to care, then he didn’t need to hurt when he failed. Those failures couldn’t have been prevented. Someone or something else had ordained them.

  “If I’m not cursed,” Kaladin said softly, “then why do I live when others die?”

  “Because of us,” Syl said. “This bond. It makes you stronger, Kaladin.”

  “Then why can’t it make me strong enough to help the others?”

  “I don’t know,” Syl said. “Maybe it can.”

  If I get rid of it, I’ll go back to being normal. For what purpose… so I can die with the others?

  He continued to walk in the darkness, passing lights above that made vague, faint shadows on the stones in front of him. The tendrils of fingermoss, clumped in bunches. Their shadows seemed arms.

  He thought often about saving the bridgemen. And yet, as he considered, he realized that he often framed saving them in terms of saving himself. He told himself he wouldn’t let them die, because he knew what it would do to him if they did. When he lost men, the wretch threatened to take over because of how much Kaladin hated failing.

  Was that it? Was that why he searched for reasons why he might be cursed? To explain his failure away? Kaladin began to walk more quickly.

  He was doing something good in helping the bridgemen-but he also was doing something selfish. The powers had unsettled him because of the responsibility they represented.