The Way of Kings

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Truthless,” the king mused. “I would say that you know much truth. More than your countrymen, now.” He finally turned to face Szeth, and Szeth saw that he had been wrong about this man. King Taravangian was no simpleton. He had keen eyes and a wise, knowing face, rimmed with a full white beard, the mustaches drooping like arrow points. “You have seen what death and murder do to a man. You could say, Szeth-son-son-Vallano, that you bear great sins for your people. You understand what they cannot. And so you have truth.”

  Szeth frowned. And then it began to make sense. He knew what would happen next, even as the king reached into his voluminous sleeve and withdrew a small rock that glittered in the light of two dozen lamps. “You were always him,” Szeth said. “My unseen master.”

  The king set the rock on the ground between them. Szeth’s Oathstone.

  “You put your own name on the list,” Szeth said.

  “In case you were captured,” Taravangian said. “The best defense against suspicion is to be grouped with the victims.”

  “And if I’d killed you?”

  “The instructions were explicit,” Taravangian said. “And, as we have determined, you are quite good at following them. I probably needn’t say it, but I order you not to harm me. Now, did you kill my guards?”

  “I do not know,” Szeth said, forcing himself to drop to one knee and dismissing his Blade. He spoke loudly, trying to drown out the screams that he thought—for certain—must be coming from the upper eaves of the room. “I knocked them both unconscious. I believe I cracked one man’s skull.”

  Taravangian breathed out, sighing. He rose, stepping to the doorway. Szeth glanced over his shoulder to note the aged king inspecting the guards and seeing to their wounds. Taravangian called for help, and other guards arrived to see to the men.

  Szeth was left with a terrible storm of emotions. This kindly, contemplative man had sent him to kill and murder? He had caused the screams?

  Taravangian returned.

  “Why?” Szeth asked, voice hoarse. “Vengeance?”

  “No.” Taravangian sounded very tired. “Some of those men you killed were my dear friends, Szeth-son-son-Vallano.”

  “More insurance?” Szeth spat. “To keep yourself from suspicion?”

  “In part. And in part because their deaths were necessary.”

  “Why?” Szeth asked. “What could it possibly have served?”

  “Stability. Those you killed were among the most powerful and influential men in Roshar.”

  “How does that help stability?”

  “Sometimes,” Taravangian said, “you must tear down a structure to build a new one with stronger walls.” He turned around, looking out over the ocean. “And we are going to need strong walls in the coming years. Very, very strong walls.”

  “Your words are like the hundred doves.”

  “Easy to release, difficult to keep,” Taravangian said, speaking the words in Shin.

  Szeth looked up sharply. This man spoke the Shin language and knew his people’s proverbs? Odd to find in a stonewalker. Odder to find in a murderer.

  “Yes, I speak your language. Sometimes I wonder if the Lifebrother himself sent you to me.”

  “To bloody myself so that you wouldn’t have to,” Szeth said. “Yes, that sounds like something one of your Vorin gods would do.”

  Taravangian fell quiet. “Get up,” he finally said.

  Szeth obeyed. He would always obey his master. Taravangian led him to a door set into the side of the study. The aged man pulled a sphere lamp off the wall, lighting a winding stairwell of deep, narrow steps. They followed it and eventually came to a landing. Taravangian pushed open another door and entered a large room that wasn’t on any of the palace maps that Szeth had purchased or bribed a look at. It was long, with wide railings on the sides, giving it a terraced look. Everything was painted white.

  It was filled with beds. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Many were occupied.

  Szeth followed the king, frowning. An enormous hidden room, cut into the stone of the Conclave? People bustled about wearing coats of white. “A hospital?” Szeth said. “You expect me to find your humanitarian eff orts a redemption for what you have commanded of me?”

  “This is not humanitarian work,” Taravangian said, walking forward slowly, white-and-orange robes rustling. Those they passed bowed to him with reverence. Taravangian led Szeth to an alcove of beds, each with a sickly person in it. There were healers working on them. Doing something to their arms.

  Draining their blood.

  A woman with a writing clipboard stood near the beds, pen held, waiting for something. What?

  “I don’t understand,” Szeth said, watching in horror as the four patients grew pale. “You’re killing them, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. We don’t need the blood; it is merely a way to kill slowly and easily.”

  “Every one of them? The people in this room?”

  “We try to select only the worst cases to move here, for once they are brought to this place, we cannot let them leave if they begin to recover.” He turned to Szeth, eyes sorrowful. “Sometimes we need more bodies than the terminally sick can provide. And so we must bring the forgotten and the lowly. Those who will not be missed.”

  Szeth couldn’t speak. He couldn’t voice his horror and revulsion. In front of him, one of the victims—a man in his younger years—expired. Two of those remaining were children. Szeth stepped forward. He had to stop this. He had to—

  “You will still yourself,” Taravangian said. “And you will return to my side.”

  Szeth did as his master commanded. What were a few more deaths? Just another set of screams to haunt him. He could hear them now, coming from beneath beds, behind furniture.

  Or I could kill him, Szeth thought. I could stop this.

  He nearly did it. But honor prevailed, for the moment.

  “You see, Szeth-son-son-Vallano,” Taravangian said. “I did not send you to do my bloody work for me. I do it here, myself. I have personally held the knife and released the blood from the veins of many. Much like you, I know I cannot escape my sins. We are two men of one heart. This is one reason why I sought you out.”

  “But why?” Szeth said.

  On the beds, a dying youth started speaking. One of the women with the clipboards stepped forward quickly, recording the words.

  “The day was ours, but they took it,” the boy cried. “Stormfather! You cannot have it. The day is ours. They come, rasping, and the lights fail. Oh, Stormfather!” The boy arched his back, then fell still suddenly, eyes dead.

  The king turned to Szeth. “It is better for one man to sin than for a people to be destroyed, wouldn’t you say, Szeth-son-son-Vallano?”

  “I…”

  “We do not know why some speak when others do not,” Taravangian said. “But the dying see something. It began seven years ago, about the time when King Gavilar was investigating the Shattered Plains for the first time.” His eyes grew distant. “It is coming, and these people see it. On that bridge between life and the endless ocean of death, they view something. Their words might save us.”

  “You are a monster.”

  “Yes,” Taravangian said. “But I am the monster who will save this world.” He looked at Szeth. “I have a name to add to your list. I had hoped to avoid doing this, but recent events have made it inevitable. I cannot let him seize control. It will undermine everything.”

  “Who?” Szeth asked, wondering if anything at all could horrify him further.

  “Dalinar Kholin,” Taravangian said. “I’m afraid it must be done quickly, before he can unite the Alethi highprinces. You will go to the Shattered Plains and end him.” He hesitated. “It must be done brutally, I’m afraid.”

  “I have rarely had the luxury of working otherwise,” Szeth said, closing his eyes.

  The screams greeted him.

  “Before I read,” Shallan said, “I need to understand something. You Soulcast my blood, didn’t you?”
<
br />   “To remove the poison,” Jasnah said. “Yes. It acted extremely quickly; as I said, it must have been a very concentrated form of the powder. I had to Soulcast your blood several times as we got you to vomit. Your body continued to absorb the poison.”

  “But you said you aren’t good with organics,” Shallan said. “You turned the strawberry jam into something inedible.”

  “Blood isn’t the same,” Jasnah said, waving her hand. “It’s one of the Essences. You’ll learn this, should I actually decide to teach you Soulcasting. For now, know that the pure form of an Essence is quite easy to make; the eight kinds of blood are easier to create than water, for instance. Creating something as complex as strawberry jam, however—a mush made from a fruit I’d never before tasted or smelled—was well beyond my abilities.”

  “And the ardents,” Shallan said. “Those who Soulcast? Do they actually use fabrials, or is it all a hoax?”

  “No, Soulcasting fabrials are real. Quite real. So far as I know, everyone else who does what I—what we—can do uses a fabrial to accomplish it.”

  “What of the creatures with the symbol heads?” Shallan asked. She flipped through her sketches, then held up an image of them. “Do you see them too? How are they related?”

  Jasnah frowned, taking the image. “You see beings like this? In Shadesmar?”

  “They appear in my drawings,” Shallan said. “They’re around me, Jasnah. You don’t see them? Am I—”

  Jasnah held up a hand. “These are a type of spren, Shallan. They are related to what you do.” She tapped the desk softly. “Two orders of the Knights Radiant possessed inherent Soulcasting ability; it was based on their powers that the original fabrials were designed, I believe. I had assumed that you… But no, that obviously wouldn’t make sense. I see now.”

  “What?”

  “I will explain as I train you,” Jasnah said, handing back the sheet. “You will need a greater foundation before you can grasp it. Suffice it to say that each Radiant’s abilities were tied to the spren.”

  “Wait, Radiants? But—”

  “I will explain,” Jasnah said. “But first, we must speak of the Voidbringers.”

  Shallan nodded. “You think they’ll return, don’t you?”

  Jasnah studied her. “What makes you say that?”

  “The legends say the Voidbringers came a hundred times to try to destroy mankind,” Shallan continued. “I… read some of your notes.”

  “You what?”

  “I was looking for information on Soulcasting,” Shallan confessed.

  Jasnah sighed. “Well, I suppose it is the least of your crimes.”

  “I can’t understand,” Shallan said. “Why are you bothering with these stories of myths and shadows? Other scholars—scholars I know you respect—consider the Voidbringers to be a fabrication. Yet you chase stories from rural farmers and write them down in your notebook. Why, Jasnah? Why do you have faith in this when you reject things that are so much more plausible?”

  Jasnah looked over her sheets of paper. “Do you know the real difference between me and a believer, Shallan?”

  Shallan shook her head.

  “It strikes me that religion—in its essence—seeks to take natural events and ascribe supernatural causes to them. I, however, seek to take supernatural events and find the natural meanings behind them. Perhaps that is the final dividing line between science and religion. Opposite sides of a card.”

  “So… you think…”

  “The Voidbringers had a natural, real-world correlate,” Jasnah said firmly. “I’m certain of it. Something caused the legends.”

  “What was it?”

  Jasnah handed Shallan a page of notes. “These are the best I’ve been able to find. Read them. Tell me what you think.”

  Shallan scanned the page. Some of the quotes—or at least the concepts—were familiar to her from what she’d read already.

  Suddenly dangerous. Like a calm day that became a tempest.

  “They were real,” Jasnah repeated.

  Beings of ash and fire.

  “We fought with them,” Jasnah said. “We fought so often that men began to speak of the creatures in metaphor. A hundred battles—ten tenfolds…”

  Flame and char. Skin so terrible. Eyes like pits of blackness. Music when they kill.

  “We defeated them…” Jasnah said.

  Shallan felt a chill.

  “…but the legends lie about one thing,” Jasnah continued. “They claim we chased the Voidbringers off the face of Roshar or destroyed them. But that’s not how humans work. We don’t throw away something we can use.”

  Shallan rose, walking to the edge of the balcony, looking out at the lift, which was slowly being lowered by its two porters.

  Parshmen. With skin of black and red.

  Ash and fire.

  “Stormfather…” Shallan whispered, horrified.

  “We didn’t destroy the Voidbringers,” Jasnah said from behind, her voice haunted. “We enslaved them.”

  The chill spring weather might finally have slipped back into summer. It was still cool at night, but not uncomfortably so. Kaladin stood on Dalinar Kholin’s staging ground, looking eastward over the Shattered Plains.

  Ever since the failed betrayal and subsequent rescue earlier, Kaladin had found himself nervous. Freedom. Bought with a Shardblade. It seemed impossible. His every life experience taught him to expect a trap.

  He clasped his hands behind him; Syl sat on his shoulder.

  “Dare I trust him?” he asked softly.

  “He’s a good man,” Syl said. “I’ve watched him. Despite that thing he carried.”

  “That thing?”

  “The Shardblade.”

  “What do you care about it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. “It just feels wrong to me. I hate it. I’m glad he got rid of it. Makes him a better man.”

  Nomon, the middle moon, began to rise. Bright and pale blue, bathing the horizon in light. Somewhere, out across the Plains, was the Parshendi Shardbearer that Kaladin had fought. He’d stabbed the man in the leg from behind. The watching Parshendi had not interfered with the duel and had avoided attacking Kaladin’s wounded bridgemen, but Kaladin had attacked one of their champions from the most cowardly position possible, interfering with a fight.

  He was bothered by what he’d done, and that frustrated him. A warrior couldn’t worry about who he attacked or how. Survival was the only rule of the battlefield.

  Well, survival and loyalty. And he sometimes let wounded enemies live if they weren’t a threat. And he saved young soldiers who needed protection. And…

  And he’d never been good at doing what a warrior should.

  Today, he’d saved a highprince—another lighteyes—and along with him thousands of soldiers. Saved them by killing Parshendi.

  “Can you kill to protect?” Kaladin asked out loud. “Is that a self-contradiction?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  “You acted strangely in the battle,” Kaladin said. “Swirling around me. After that, you left. I didn’t see much of you.”

  “The killing,” she said softly. “It hurt me. I had to go.”

  “Yet you’re the one who prompted me to go and save Dalinar. You wanted me to return and kill.”

  “I know.”

  “Teft said that the Radiants held to a standard,” Kaladin said. “He said that by their rules, you shouldn’t do terrible things to accomplish great ones. Yet what did I do today? Slaughter Parshendi in order to save Alethi. What of that? They aren’t innocent, but neither are we. Not by a faint breeze or a stormwind.”

  Syl didn’t reply.

  “If I hadn’t gone to save Dalinar’s men,” Kaladin said, “I would have allowed Sadeas to commit a terrible betrayal. I’d have let men die who I could have saved. I’d have been sick and disgusted with myself. I also lost three good men, bridgemen who were mere breaths away from freedom. Are the lives of the
others worth that?”

  “I don’t have the answers, Kaladin.”

  “Does anyone?”

  Footsteps came from behind. Syl turned. “It’s him.”

  The moon had just risen. Dalinar Kholin, it appeared, was a punctual man.

  He stepped up beside Kaladin. He carried a bundle under his arm, and he had a military air about him, even without his Shardplate on. In fact, he was more impressive without it. His muscular build indicated that he did not rely on his Plate to give him strength, and the neatly pressed uniform indicated a man who understood that others were inspired when their leader looked the part.

  Others have looked just as noble, Kaladin thought. But would any man trade a Shardblade just to keep up appearances? And if they would, at what point did the appearance become reality?

  “I’m sorry to make you meet me so late,” Dalinar said. “I know it has been a long day.”

  “I doubt I could have slept anyway.”

  Dalinar grunted softly, as if he understood. “Your men are seen to?”

  “Yes,” Kaladin said. “Quite well, actually. Thank you.” Kaladin had been given empty barracks for the bridgemen and they had received medical attention from Dalinar’s best surgeons—they’d gotten it before the wounded lighteyed officers had. The other bridgemen, the ones who weren’t from Bridge Four, had accepted Kaladin immediately, without any deliberation on the matter, as their leader.

  Dalinar nodded. “How many, do you suspect, will take my offer of a purse and freedom?”

  “A fair number of the men from other crews will. But I’ll wager an even larger number won’t. Bridgemen don’t think of escape or freedom. They wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. As for my own crew… Well, I have a feeling that they’ll insist on doing whatever I do. If I stay, they’ll stay. If I go, they’ll go.”

  Dalinar nodded. “And what will you do?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I spoke to my officers.” Dalinar grimaced. “The ones who survived. They said that you gave orders to them, took charge like a lighteyes. My son still feels bitter about the way your… conversation with him went.”