The Way of Kings

by Brandon Sanderson

  Eventually, Syl flitted down and landed on the end of his plank, riding like a queen on her palanquin. “They’re talking about you,” she said as he passed the Bridge Four barrack again.

  “Not surprising,” Kaladin said between puffs.

  “Some think you’ve gone mad,” she said. “Like that man who just sits and stares at the floor. They say the battle stress broke your mind.”

  “Maybe they’re right. I didn’t consider that.”

  “What is madness?” she asked, sitting with one leg up against her chest, vaporous skirt flickering around her calves and vanishing into mist.

  “It’s when men don’t think right,” Kaladin said, glad for the conversation to distract him.

  “Men never seem to think right.”

  “Madness is worse than normal,” Kaladin said with a smile. “It really just depends on the people around you. How different are you from them? The person that stands out is mad, I guess.”

  “So you all just…vote on it?” she asked, screwing up her face.

  “Well, not so actively. But it’s the right idea.”

  She sat thoughtfully for a time longer. “Kaladin,” she finally said. “Why do men lie? I can see what lies are, but I don’t know why people do it.”

  “Lots of reasons,” Kaladin said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand, then using it to steady the plank.

  “Is it madness?”

  “I don’t know if I’d say that. Everyone does it.”

  “So maybe you’re all a little mad.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, perhaps.”

  “But if everyone does it,” she said, leaning her head on her knee, “then the one who doesn’t would be the one who is mad, right? Isn’t that what you said earlier?”

  “Well, I guess. But I don’t think there’s a person out there who hasn’t ever lied.”

  “Dalinar.”

  “Who?”

  “The king’s uncle,” Syl said. “Everyone says he never lies. Your bridgemen even talk about it sometimes.”

  That’s right. The Blackthorn. Kaladin had heard of him, even in his youth. “He’s a lighteyes. That means he lies.”

  “But—”

  “They’re all the same, Syl. The more noble they look, the more corrupt they are inside. It’s all an act.” He fell quiet, surprised at the vehemence of his bitterness. Storm you, Amaram. You did this to me. He’d been burned too often to trust the flame.

  “I don’t think men were always this way,” she said absently, getting a far-off look in her face. “I…”

  Kaladin waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. He passed Bridge Four again; many of the men relaxed, backs to the barrack wall, waiting for the afternoon shade to cover them. They rarely waited inside. Perhaps staying inside all day was too gloomy, even for bridgemen.

  “Syl?” he finally prompted. “Were you going to say something?”

  “It seems I’ve heard men talk about times when there were no lies.”

  “There are stories,” Kaladin said, “about the times of the Heraldic Epochs, when men were bound by honor. But you’ll always find people telling stories about supposedly better days. You watch. A man joins a new team of soldiers, and the first thing he’ll do is talk about how wonderful his old team was. We remember the good times and the bad ones, forgetting that most times are neither good nor bad. They just are.”

  He broke into a jog. The sun was growing warm overhead, but he wanted to move.

  “The stories,” he continued between puffs, “they prove it. What happened to the Heralds? They abandoned us. What happened to the Knights Radiant? They fell and became tarnished. What happened to the Epoch Kingdoms? They crashed when the church tried to seize power. You can’t trust anyone with power, Syl.”

  “What do you do, then? Have no leaders?”

  “No. You give the power to the lighteyes and leave it to corrupt them. Then try to stay as far from them as possible.” His words felt hollow. How good a job had he done staying away from lighteyes? He always seemed to be in the thick of them, caught in the muddy mire they created with their plots, schemes, and greed.

  Syl fell silent, and after that last jog, he decided to stop his practicing. He couldn’t afford to strain himself again. He returned the plank. The carpenters scratched their heads, but didn’t complain. He made his way back to the bridgemen, noticing that a small group of them—including Rock and Teft—were chatting and glancing at Kaladin.

  “You know,” Kaladin said to Syl, “talking to you probably doesn’t do anything for my reputation of being insane.”

  “I’ll do my best to stop being so interesting,” Syl said, alighting on his shoulder. She put her hands on her hips, then plopped down to a sitting position, smiling, obviously pleased with her comment.

  Before Kaladin could get back to the barrack, he noticed Gaz hustling across the lumberyard toward him. “You!” Gaz said, pointing at Kaladin. “Hold a season.”

  Kaladin stopped, waiting with folded arms.

  “I’ve news for you,” Gaz said, squinting with his good eye. “Brightlord Lamaril heard what you did with the wounded.”

  “How?”

  “Storms, boy!” Gaz said. “You think people wouldn’t talk? What were you going to do? Hide three men in the middle of us all?”

  Kaladin took a deep breath, but backed down. Gaz was right. “All right. What does it matter? We didn’t slow the army.”

  “Yeah,” Gaz said, “but Lamaril isn’t too polished on the idea of paying and feeding bridgemen who can’t work. He took the matter to Highprince Sadeas, intending to have you strung up.”

  Kaladin felt a chill. Strung up would mean hung out during a highstorm for the Stormfather to judge. It was essentially a death sentence. “And?”

  “Brightlord Sadeas refused to let him do it,” Gaz said.

  What? Had he misjudged Sadeas? But no. This was part of the act.

  “Brightlord Sadeas,” Gaz said grimly, “told Lamaril to let you keep the soldiers—but to forbid them food or pay while they’re unable to work. Said it would show why he’s forced to leave bridgemen behind.”

  “That cremling,” Kaladin muttered.

  Gaz paled. “Hush. That’s the highprince himself you’re talking about, boy!” He glanced about to see if anyone had heard.

  “He’s trying to make an example of my men. He wants the other bridgemen to see the wounded suffer and starve. He wants it to seem like he’s doing a mercy by leaving the wounded behind.”

  “Well, maybe he’s right.”

  “It’s heartless,” Kaladin said. “He brings back wounded soldiers. He leaves the bridgemen because it’s cheaper to find new slaves than it is to care for wounded ones.”

  Gaz fell silent.

  “Thank you for bringing me this news.”

  “News?” Gaz snapped. “I was sent to give you orders, lordling. Don’t try to get extra food from the mess hall for your wounded; you’ll be refused.” With that, he rushed away, muttering to himself.

  Kaladin made his way back to the barrack. Stormfather! Where was he going to get food enough to feed three men? He could split his own meals with them, but while bridgemen were kept fed, they weren’t given an excess. Even feeding one man beyond himself would be a stretch. Trying to split the meals four ways would leave the wounded too weak to recover and Kaladin too weak to run bridges. And he still needed antiseptic! Rotspren and disease killed far more men in war than the enemy did.

  Kaladin stepped up to the men lounging by the barrack. Most were going about the usual bridgeman activities—sprawled on the ground and despondently staring into the air, sitting and despondently staring at the ground, standing and despondently staring into the distance. Bridge Four wasn’t on bridge duty at all this day, and they didn’t have work detail until third afternoon bell.

  “Gaz says our wounded are to be refused food or pay until they are well,” Kaladin said to the collected men.

  Some of them—Sigzil, Peet, Koolf—n
odded, as if this was what they’d expected.

  “Highprince Sadeas wants to make an example of us,” Kaladin said. “He wants to prove that bridgemen aren’t worth healing, and he’s going to do it by making Hobber, Leyten, and Dabbid die slow, painful deaths.” He took a deep breath. “I want to pool our resources to buy medicine and get food for the wounded. We can keep those three alive if a few of you will split your meals with them. We’ll need about two dozen or so clearmarks to buy the right medicine and supplies. Who has something they can spare?”

  The men stared at him, then Moash started laughing. Others joined him. They waved dismissive hands and broke up, walking away, leaving Kaladin with his hand out. “Next time it could be you!” he called. “What will you do if you’re the one that needs healing?”

  “I’ll die,” Moash said, not even bothering to look back. “Out on the field, quickly, rather than back here over a week’s time.”

  Kaladin lowered his hand. He sighed, turning, and almost ran into Rock. The beefy, towerlike Horneater stood with arms folded, like a tan-skinned statue. Kaladin looked up at him, hopeful.

  “Don’t have any spheres,” Rock said with a grunt. “Is all spent already.”

  Kaladin sighed. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Two of us couldn’t afford to buy the medicine. Not alone.”

  “I will give some food,” Rock grumbled.

  Kaladin glanced back at him, surprised.

  “But only for this man with arrow in his leg,” Rock said, arms still folded.

  “Hobber?”

  “Whatever,” Rock said. “He looks like he could get better. Other one, he will die. Is certain. And I have no pity for man who sits there, not doing anything. But for the other one, you may have my food. Some of it.”

  Kaladin smiled, raising a hand and gripping the larger man’s arm. “Thank you.”

  Rock shrugged. “You took my place. Without this thing, I would be dead.”

  Kaladin smirked at that logic. “I’m not dead, Rock. You’d be fine.”

  Rock shook his head. “I’d be dead. Is something strange about you. All men can see it, even if they don’t want to speak of this thing. I looked at bridge where you were. Arrows hit all around you—beside your head, next to your hands. But they weren’t hitting you.”

  “Luck.”

  “Is no such thing.” Rock glanced at Kaladin’s shoulder. “Besides, there is mafah’liki who always follows you.” The large Horneater bowed his head reverently to Syl, then made a strange gesture with his hand touching his shoulders and then his forehead.

  Kaladin started. “You can see her?” He glanced at Syl. As a windspren, she could appear to those she wanted to—and that generally only meant Kaladin.

  Syl seemed shocked. No, she hadn’t appeared to Rock specifically.

  “I am alaii’iku,” Rock said, shrugging.

  “Which means…”

  Rock scowled. “Airsick lowlanders. Is there nothing proper you know? Anyway, you are special man. Bridge Four, it lost eight runners yesterday counting the three wounded.”

  “I know,” Kaladin said. “I broke my first promise. I said I wasn’t going to lose a single one.”

  Rock snorted. “We are bridgemen. We die. Is how this thing works. You might as well promise to make the moons catch each other!” The large man turned, pointing toward one of the other barracks. “Of the bridges that were fired upon, most lost many men. Five bridges fell. They lost over twenty men each and needed soldiers to help get bridges back. Bridge Two lost eleven men, and it wasn’t even a focus of firing.”

  He turned back to Kaladin. “Bridge Four lost eight. Eight men, during one of the worst runs of the season. And, perhaps, you will save two of those. Bridge Four lost fewest men of any bridge that the Parshendi tried to drop. Bridge Four never loses fewest men. Everyone knows how it is.”

  “Luck—”

  Rock pointed a fat finger at him, cutting him off. “Airsick lowlander.”

  It was just luck. But, well, Kaladin would take it for the small blessing it was. No use arguing when someone had finally decided to start listening to him.

  But one man wasn’t enough. Even if both he and Rock went on half rations, one of the sick men would starve. He needed spheres. He needed them desperately. But he was a slave; it was illegal for him to earn money in most ways. If only he had something he could sell. But he owned nothing. He…

  A thought occurred to him.

  “Come on,” he said, striding away from the barrack. Rock followed curiously. Kaladin searched through the lumberyard until he found Gaz speaking with a bridgeleader in front of Bridge Three’s barrack. As was growing more common, Gaz grew pale when Kaladin approached, and made as if to scurry away.

  “Gaz, wait!” Kaladin said, holding out his hand. “I have an offer for you.”

  The bridge sergeant froze. Beside Gaz, Bridge Three’s leader shot Kaladin a scowl. The way the other bridgemen had been treating him suddenly made sense. They were perturbed to see Bridge Four come out of a battle in such good shape. Bridge Four was supposed to be unlucky. Everyone needed someone else to look down on—and the other bridge crews could be consoled by the small mercy that they weren’t in Bridge Four. Kaladin had upset that.

  The dark-bearded bridgeleader retreated, leaving Kaladin and Rock alone with Gaz.

  “What are you offering this time?” Gaz said. “More dun spheres?”

  “No,” Kaladin said, thinking quickly. This would have to be handled very carefully. “I’m out of spheres. But we can’t continue like this, you avoiding me, the other bridge crews hating me.”

  “Don’t see what we can do about it.”

  “I tell you what,” Kaladin said, as if suddenly having a thought. “Is anyone on stone-gathering detail today?”

  “Yeah,” Gaz said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Bridge Three. Bussik there was just trying to convince me that his team is too weak to go. Storms blast me, but I believe him. Lost two-thirds of his men yesterday, and I’ll be the one who gets chewed out when they don’t gather enough stones to meet quota.”

  Kaladin nodded sympathetically. Stone gathering was one of the least desirable work details; it involved traveling outside of the camp and filling wagons with large rocks. Soulcasters fed the army by turning rocks into grain, and it was easier for them—for reasons only they knew—if they had distinct, separate stones. So men gathered rocks. It was menial, sweaty, tiring, mindless work. Perfect for bridgemen.

  “Why don’t you send a different bridge team?” Kaladin asked.

  “Bah,” Gaz said. “You know the kind of trouble that makes. If I’m seen playing favorites, I never hear an end of the complaining.”

  “Nobody will complain if you make Bridge Four do it.”

  Gaz glanced at him, single eye narrowed. “I didn’t think you’d react well to being treated differently.”

  “I’ll do it,” Kaladin said, grimacing. “Just this once. Look, Gaz, I don’t want to spend the rest of my time here fighting against you.”

  Gaz hesitated. “Your men are going to be angry. I won’t let them think it was me who did this to them.”

  “I’ll tell them that it was my idea.”

  “All right, then. Third bell, meet at the western checkpoint. Bridge Three can clean pots.” He walked away quickly, as if to escape before Kaladin changed his mind.

  Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, watching Gaz. “The little man is right, you know. The men will hate you for this thing. They were looking forward to easy day.”

  “They’ll get over it.”

  “But why change for harder work? Is true—you are crazy, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe. But that craziness will get us outside of the warcamp.”

  “What good is that?”

  “It means everything,” Kaladin said, glancing back at the barrack. “It means life and death. But we’re going to need more help.”

  “Another bridge crew?”

  “No, I mean that we—you and I—will n
eed help. One more man, at least.” He scanned the lumberyard, and noted someone sitting in the shadow of Bridge Four’s barrack. Teft. The grizzled bridgeman hadn’t been among the group that had laughed at Kaladin earlier, but he had been quick to help yesterday, going with Rock to carry Leyten.

  Kaladin took a deep breath and strode out across the grounds, Rock trailing behind. Syl left his shoulder and zipped into the air, dancing on a sudden gust of wind. Teft looked up as Kaladin and Rock approached. The older man had fetched breakfast, and he was eating alone, a piece of flatbread peeking out beneath his bowl.

  His beard was stained by the curry, and he regarded Kaladin with wary eyes before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I like my food, son,” he said. “Hardly think they feed me enough for one man. Let alone two.”

  Kaladin squatted in front of him. Rock leaned up against the wall and folded his arms, watching quietly.

  “I need you, Teft,” Kaladin said.

  “I said—”

  “Not your food. You. Your loyalty. Your allegiance.”

  The older man continued to eat. He didn’t have a slave brand, and neither did Rock. Kaladin didn’t know their stories. All he knew was that these two had helped when others hadn’t. They weren’t completely beaten down.

  “Teft—” Kaladin began.

  “I’ve given my loyalty before,” the man said. “Too many times now. Always works out the same.”

  “Your trust gets betrayed?” Kaladin asked softly.

  Teft snorted. “Storms, no. I betray it. You can’t depend on me, son. I belong here, as a bridgeman.”

  “I depended on you yesterday, and you impressed me.”

  “Fluke.”

  “I’ll judge that,” Kaladin said. “Teft, we’re all broken, in one way or another. Otherwise we wouldn’t be bridgemen. I’ve failed. My own brother died because of me.”

  “So why keep caring?”

  “It’s either that or give up and die.”

  “And if death is better?”

  It came back to this problem. This was why the bridgemen didn’t care if he helped the wounded or not.