The Way of Kings

by Brandon Sanderson

  “It’s exciting,” she corrected. “Did you mean what you said earlier? About trusting me?”

  “I said that?”

  “You said you didn’t trust your clerks, and you asked me to record the visions. There’s an implication in that.”

  Her hand was still on his arm. She reached out with her safehand and closed the door to the hallway. He almost stopped her, but he hesitated. Why?

  The door clicked closed. They were alone. And she was so beautiful. Those clever, excitable eyes, alight with passion.

  “Navani,” Dalinar said, forcing down his desire. “You’re doing it again.” Why did he let her?

  “Yes, I am,” she said. “I’m a stubborn woman, Dalinar.” There didn’t seem to be any playfulness in her tone.

  “This is not proper. My brother…” He reached for the door to open it again.

  “Your brother,” Navani spat, expression flashing with anger. “Why must everyone always focus on him? Everyone always worries so much about the man who died! He’s not here, Dalinar. He’s gone. I miss him. But not half as much as you do, it appears.”

  “I honor his memory,” Dalinar said stiffly, hesitating, hand on the door’s latch.

  “That’s fine! I’m happy you do. But it’s been six years, and all anyone can see me as is the wife of a dead man. The other women, they humor me with idle gossip, but they won’t let me into their political circles. They think I’m a relic. You wanted to know why I came back so quickly?”

  “I—”

  “I returned,” she said, “because I have no home. I’m expected to sit out of important events because my husband is dead! Lounge around, pampered but ignored. I make them uncomfortable. The queen, the other women at court.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dalinar said. “But I don’t—”

  She raised her freehand, tapping him on the chest. “I won’t take it from you, Dalinar. We were friends before I even met Gavilar! You still know me as me, not some shadow of a dynasty that crumbled years ago. Don’t you?” She looked at him, pleading.

  Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought with shock. She’s crying. Two small tears.

  He had rarely seen her so sincere.

  And so he kissed her.

  It was a mistake. He knew it was. He grabbed her anyway, pulling her into a rough, tight embrace and pressing his mouth to hers, unable to contain himself. She melted against him. He tasted the salt of her tears as they ran down to her lips and met his.

  It lasted long. Too long. Wonderfully long. His mind screamed at him, like a prisoner chained in a cell and forced to watch something horrible. But a part of him had wanted this for decades—decades spent watching his brother court, marry, and then hold the only woman that the young Dalinar had ever wanted.

  He’d told himself he would never allow this. He had denied himself feelings for Navani the moment Gavilar had won her hand. Dalinar had stepped aside.

  But the taste of her—the smell of her, the warmth of her pressed against him—was too sweet. Like a blossoming perfume, it washed away the guilt. For a moment, that touch banished everything. He couldn’t remember his fear at the visions, his worry about Sadeas, his shame at past mistakes.

  He could only think of her. Beautiful, insightful, delicate yet strong at once. He clung to her, something he could hold onto as the rest of the world churned around him.

  Eventually, he broke the kiss. She looked up at him, dazed. Passion-spren, like tiny flakes of crystalline snow, floated down in the air around them. Guilt flooded him again. He tried gently to push her away, but she clung to him, holding on tight.

  “Navani,” he said.

  “Hush.” She pressed her head against his chest.

  “We can’t—”

  “Hush,” she said, more insistently.

  He sighed, but let himself hold her.

  “Something is going wrong in this world, Dalinar,” Navani said softly. “The king of Jah Keved was assassinated. I heard it just today. He was killed by a Shin Shardbearer in white clothing.”

  “Stormfather!” Dalinar said.

  “Something’s going on,” she said. “Something bigger than our war here, something bigger than Gavilar. Have you heard of the twisted things men say when they die? Most ignore it, but surgeons are talking. And stormwardens whisper that the highstorms are growing more powerful.”

  “I have heard,” he said, finding it difficult to get the words out, intoxicated by her as he was.

  “My daughter seeks something,” Navani said. “She frightens me sometimes. She’s so intense. I honestly believe she’s the most intelligent person I’ve ever known. And the things she searches for… Dalinar, she believes that something very dangerous is near.”

  The sun approaches the horizon. The Everstorm comes. The True Desolation. The Night of Sorrows….

  “I need you,” Navani said. “I’ve known it for years, though I feared it would destroy you with guilt, so I fled. But I couldn’t stay away. Not with the way they treat me. Not with what is happening to the world. I’m terrified, Dalinar, and I need you. Gavilar was not the man everyone thought him to be. I was fond of him, but he—”

  “Please,” Dalinar said, “don’t speak ill of him.”

  “Very well.”

  Blood of my fathers! He couldn’t get her scent out of his head. He felt paralyzed, holding to her like a man clinging to a stone in the stormwinds.

  She looked up at him. “Well, let it be said—then—that I was fond of Gavilar. But I’m more than fond of you. And I’m tired of waiting.”

  He closed his eyes. “How can this work?”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  “We’ll be denounced.”

  “The warcamps already ignore me,” Navani said, “and they spread rumors and lies about you. What more can they do to us?”

  “They’ll find something. As of yet, the devotaries do not condemn me.”

  “Gavilar is dead,” Navani said, resting her head back against his chest. “I was never unfaithful while he lived, though the Stormfather knows I had ample reason. The devotaries can say what they wish, but The Arguments do not forbid our union. Tradition is not the same as doctrine, and I will not hold myself back for fear of offending.”

  Dalinar took a deep breath, then forced himself to open his arms and pull back. “If you had hoped to soothe my worries for the day, then this didn’t help.”

  She folded her arms. He could still feel where her safehand had touched him on the back. A tender touch, reserved for a family member. “I’m not here to soothe you, Dalinar. Quite the opposite.”

  “Please. I do need time to think.”

  “I won’t let you put me away. I won’t ignore that this happened. I won’t—”

  “Navani,” he gently cut her off, “I will not abandon you. I promise.”

  She eyed him, then a wry smile crept onto her face. “Very well. But you began something today.”

  “I began it?” he asked, amused, elated, confused, worried, and ashamed at the same time.

  “The kiss was yours, Dalinar,” she said idly, pulling open the door and entering his antechamber.

  “You seduced me to it.”

  “What? Seduced?” She glanced back at him. “Dalinar, I’ve never been more open and honest in my life.”

  “I know,” Dalinar said, smiling. “That was the seductive part.” He closed the door softly, then let out a sigh.

  Blood of my fathers, he thought, why can’t these things ever be simple?

  And yet, in direct contrast with his thoughts, he felt as if the entire world had somehow become more right for having gone wrong.

  “The darkness becomes a palace. Let it rule! Let it rule!”

  —Kakevah 1173, 22 seconds pre-death. A darkeyed Selay man of unknown profession.

  “You think one of those will save us?” Moash asked, scowling as he looked at the prayer tied about Kaladin’s upper right arm.

  Kaladin glanced to the side. He stood at parade rest as Sadeas’s sol
diers crossed their bridge. The chilly spring air felt good, now that he’d started working. The sky was bright, cloudless, and the stormwardens promised that no highstorm was near.

  The prayer tied on his arms was simple. Three glyphs: wind, protection, beloved. A prayer to Jezerezeh—the Stormfather—to protect loved ones and friends. It was the straightforward type his mother had preferred. For all her subtlety and wryness, whenever she’d knitted or written a prayer, it had been simple and heartfelt. Wearing it reminded him of her.

  “I can’t believe you paid good money for that,” Moash said. “If there are Heralds watching, they don’t pay any mind to bridgemen.”

  “I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately, I guess.” The prayer was probably meaningless, but he’d had reason to start thinking more about religion lately. The life of a slave made it difficult for many to believe that anyone, or anything, was watching. Yet many bridgemen had grown more religious during their captivity. Two groups, opposite reactions. Did that mean some were stupid and others were callous, or something else entirely?

  “They’re going to see us dead, you know,” Drehy said from behind. “This is it.” The bridgemen were exhausted. Kaladin and his team had been forced to work the chasms all night. Hashal had put strict requirements on them, demanding an increased amount of salvage. In order to meet the quota, they’d forgone training to scavenge.

  And then today they’d been awakened for a morning chasm assault after only three hours of sleep. They were drooping as they stood in line, and they hadn’t even reached the contested plateau yet.

  “Let it come,” Skar said quietly from the other side of the line. “They want us dead? Well, I’m not going to back down. We’ll show them what courage is. They can hide behind our bridges while we charge.”

  “That’s no victory,” Moash said. “I say we attack the soldiers. Right now.”

  “Our own troops?” Sigzil said, turning his dark-skinned head and looking down the line of men.

  “Sure,” Moash said, eyes still forward. “They’re going to kill us anyway. Let’s take a few of them with us. Damnation, why not charge Sadeas? His guard won’t expect it. I’ll bet we could knock down a few and grab their spears, then be on to killing lighteyes before they cut us down.”

  A couple of bridgemen murmured their assent as the soldiers continued to cross.

  “No,” Kaladin said. “It wouldn’t accomplish anything. They’d have us dead before we could so much as inconvenience Sadeas.”

  Moash spat. “And this will accomplish something? Damnation, Kaladin, I feel like I’m already dangling from the noose!”

  “I have a plan,” Kaladin said.

  He waited for the objections. His other plans hadn’t worked.

  No one offered a complaint.

  “Well then,” Moash said. “What is it?”

  “You’ll see today,” Kaladin said. “If it works, it will buy us time. If it fails, I’ll be dead.” He turned to look down the line of faces. “In that case, Teft has orders to lead you on an escape attempt tonight. You’re not ready, but at least you’ll have a chance.” That was far better than attacking Sadeas as he crossed.

  Kaladin’s men nodded, and Moash seemed content. As contrary as he’d been originally, he had grown equally loyal. He was hotheaded, but he was also the best with the spear.

  Sadeas approached, riding his roan stallion, wearing his red Shardplate, helm on but visor up. By chance, he crossed on Kaladin’s bridge, though—as always—he had twenty to choose from. Sadeas didn’t give Bridge Four so much as a glance.

  “Break and cross,” Kaladin ordered after Sadeas was over. The bridgemen crossed their bridge, and Kaladin gave the orders for them to pull it behind them, then lift.

  It felt heavier than it ever had before. The bridgemen broke into a trot, rounding the army column and hustling to reach the next chasm. In the distance behind, a second army—one in blue—was following them, crossing using some of Sadeas’s other bridge crews. It looked like Dalinar Kholin had given up his bulky mechanical bridges, and was now using Sadeas’s own bridge crews to cross. So much for his “honor” and not sacrificing bridgeman lives.

  In his pouch, Kaladin carried a large number of infused spheres, obtained from the moneychangers in exchange for a greater quantity of dun spheres. He hated taking that loss, but he needed the Stormlight.

  They reached the next chasm quickly. It would be the next-to-last one, according to the word he’d gotten from Matal, Hashal’s husband. The soldiers began checking their armor, stretching, anticipationspren rising in the air like small streamers.

  The bridgemen set their bridge and stepped back. Kaladin noted Lopen and silent Dabbid approaching with their stretcher, waterskins and bandages inside. Lopen had hitched the stretcher to a hook at his waist, making up for his missing arm. The two moved among the members of Bridge Four, giving them water.

  As he passed Kaladin, Lopen nodded toward the large bulge at the stretcher’s center. The armor. “When do you want it?” Lopen asked softly, lowering the litter, then handing Kaladin a waterskin.

  “Right before we run the assault,” Kaladin replied. “You did well, Lopen.”

  Lopen winked. “A one-armed Herdazian is still twice as useful as a no-brained Alethi. Plus, so long as I’ve got one hand, I can still do this.” He covertly made a rude gesture toward the marching soldiers.

  Kaladin smiled, but was growing too nervous to feel mirth. It had been a long time since he’d gotten jitters going into a battle. He thought Tukks had beaten that out of him years ago.

  “Hey,” a sudden voice called, “I need some of that.”

  Kaladin spun to see a soldier walking over. He was exactly the type of man Kaladin had known to avoid back in Amaram’s army. Darkeyed but of modest rank, he was naturally large, and had probably gotten promoted by sheer virtue of size. His armor was well maintained but the uniform beneath was stained and wrinkled, and he kept the sleeves rolled up, exposing hairy arms.

  At first, Kaladin assumed that the man had seen Lopen’s gesture. But the man didn’t seem mad. He shoved Kaladin aside, then pulled the waterskin away from Lopen. Nearby, the soldiers waiting to cross had noticed. Their own water crews were much slower, and more than a few of the waiting men eyed Lopen and his waterskins.

  It would set a terrible precedent to let the soldiers take their water—but that was a tiny problem compared with the greater one. If those soldiers swarmed around the litter to get water, they’d discover the sack full of armor.

  Kaladin moved quickly, snatching the waterskin from the soldier’s hand. “You have your own water crews.”

  The soldier looked at Kaladin, as if completely unable to believe that a bridgeman was standing up to him. He scowled darkly, lowering his spear to his side, its butt against the ground. “I don’t want to wait.”

  “How unfortunate,” Kaladin said, stepping right up to the man, meeting him eye to eye. Silently, he cursed the idiot. If it turned into a scuffle…

  The soldier hesitated, even more astonished to see such an aggressive threat from a bridgeman. Kaladin wasn’t as thick-armed as this man, but he was a finger or two taller. The soldier’s uncertainty showed in his face.

  Just back down, Kaladin thought.

  But no. Backing down from a bridgeman while his squad was watching? The man made a fist, knuckles cracking.

  Within seconds, the entire bridge crew was there. The soldier blinked as Bridge Four formed around Kaladin in an aggressive inverted wedge pattern, moving naturally—smoothly—as Kaladin had trained them. Each one made fists, giving the soldier ample chance to see that the heavy lifting had trained these men to a physical level beyond that of the average soldier.

  The man glanced back at his squad, as if looking for support.

  “Do you want to spark a fight now, friend?” Kaladin asked softly. “If you hurt the bridgemen, I wonder who Sadeas will make run this bridge.”

  The man glanced back at Kaladin, was silent for a moment, then
scowled, cursed, and stalked away. “Probably full of crem anyway,” he muttered, rejoining his team.

  The members of Bridge Four relaxed, though they received more than a few appreciative looks from the other soldiers in line. For once, there was something other than scowls. Hopefully they wouldn’t realize that a squad of bridgemen had quickly and accurately made a battle formation commonly used in spear fighting.

  Kaladin waved for his men to stand down, nodding his thanks. They fell back, and Kaladin tossed the recovered waterskin back to Lopen.

  The shorter man smirked wryly. “I’ll keep a tighter grip on these things from now on, gancho.” He eyed the soldier who had tried to take the water.

  “What?” Kaladin asked.

  “Well, I’ve got a cousin in the water crews, you see,” Lopen said. “And I’m thinking that he might owe me a favor on account of this one time I helped his sister’s friend escape a guy looking for her….”

  “You do have a lot of cousins.”

  “Never enough. You bother one of us, you bother us all. That’s something you strawheads never seem to get. No offense or anything, gancho.”

  Kaladin raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make trouble for the soldier. Not today.” I’ll make enough of that myself here soon.

  Lopen sighed, but nodded. “All right. For you.” He held up a waterskin. “You sure you don’t want any?”

  Kaladin didn’t; his stomach was too unsettled. But he made himself take the waterskin back and drink a few mouthfuls.

  Before long, the time came to cross and pull the bridge up for the last run. The assault. Sadeas’s soldiers were forming ranks, lighteyes riding back and forth, calling orders. Matal waved Kaladin’s crew forward. Dalinar Kholin’s army had fallen behind, coming more slowly because of his larger numbers.

  Kaladin took his place at the very front of his bridge. Ahead, the Parshendi were lined up with bows on the edge of their plateau, staring down the oncoming assault. Were they singing already? Kaladin thought he could hear their voices.