The Way of Kings

by Brandon Sanderson

  “Even a fool could see he wasn’t going to be able to get to you. As for the officers, most were in shock or run ragged. I merely nudged them.”

  “I owe you my life twice over,” Dalinar said. “And that of my son and my men.”

  “You paid that debt.”

  “No,” Dalinar said. “But I’ve done what I can.” He eyed Kaladin, as if sizing him up, judging him. “Why did your bridge crew come for us? Why, really?”

  “Why did you give up your Shardblade?”

  Dalinar held his eyes, then nodded. “Fair enough. I have an offer for you. The king and I are about to do something very, very dangerous. Something that will upset all the warcamps.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Dalinar smiled faintly. “My honor guard has nearly been wiped out, and the men I do have are needed to augment the King’s Guard. My trust is stretched thin these days. I need someone to protect me and my family. I want you and your men for that job.”

  “You want a bunch of bridgemen as bodyguards?”

  “The elite ones as bodyguards,” Dalinar said. “Those in your crew, the ones you trained. I want the rest as soldiers for my army. I have heard how well your men fought. You trained them without Sadeas’s knowing, all while running bridges. I’m curious to see what you could do with the right resources.” Dalinar turned away, glancing northward. Toward Sadeas’s camp. “My army is depleted. I’m going to need every man I can get, but everyone I recruit is going to be suspect. Sadeas will try to send spies into our camp. And traitors. And assassins. Elhokar thinks we won’t last a week.”

  “Stormfather,” Kaladin said. “What are you planning?”

  “I’m going to take away their games, fully expecting them to react like children losing their favored toy.”

  “These children have armies and Shardblades.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “And this is what you want me to protect you from?”

  “Yes.”

  No quibbling. Straightforward. There was much to respect about that.

  “I’ll augment Bridge Four to become the honor guard,” Kaladin said. “And train the rest as a spearman company. Those in the honor guard get paid like it.” Generally, a lighteyes’s personal guard got triple a standard spearman’s wage.

  “Of course.”

  “And I want space to train,” Kaladin said. “Full right of requisition from the quartermasters. I get to set my men’s schedule, and we appoint our own sergeants and squadleaders. We don’t answer to any lighteyes but yourself, your sons, and the king.”

  Dalinar raised an eyebrow. “That last one is a little… irregular.”

  “You want me to guard you and your family?” Kaladin said. “Against the other highprinces and their assassins, who might infiltrate your army and your officers? Well, I can’t be in a position where any lighteyes in the camp can order me around, now can I?”

  “You have a point,” Dalinar said. “You realize, however, that in doing this I would essentially be giving you the same authority as a lighteyes of fourth dahn. You’d be in charge of a thousand former bridgemen. A full battalion.”

  “Yes.”

  Dalinar thought for a moment. “Very well. Consider yourself appointed to the rank of captain—that’s as high as I dare appoint a darkeyes. If I named you battalionlord, it would cause a whole mess of problems. I’ll let it be known, however, that you’re outside the chain of command. You don’t order around lighteyes of lesser rank than you, and lighteyes of higher rank have no authority over you.”

  “All right,” Kaladin said. “But these soldiers I train, I want them assigned to patrolling, not plateau runs. I hear you’ve had several full battalions hunting bandits, keeping the peace in the Outer Market, that sort of thing. That’s where my men go for one year, at least.”

  “Easy enough,” Dalinar said. “You want time to train them before throwing them into battle, I assume.”

  “That, and I killed a lot of Parshendi today. I found myself regretting their deaths. They showed me more honor than most members of my own army have. I didn’t like the feeling, and I want some time to think about it. The bodyguards I train for you, we’ll go out onto the field, but our primary purpose will be protecting you, not killing Parshendi.”

  Dalinar looked bemused. “All right. Though you shouldn’t have to worry. I don’t plan to be on the front lines much in the future. My role is changing. Regardless, we have a deal.”

  Kaladin held out a hand. “This is contingent on my men agreeing.”

  “I thought you said that they’d do what you did.”

  “Probably,” Kaladin said. “I command them, but I don’t own them.”

  Dalinar reached out, taking his hand, shaking it by the light of the rising sapphire moon. Then he took the bundle out from underneath his arm. “Here.”

  “What is this?” Kaladin said, taking the bundle.

  “My cloak. The one I wore to battle today, washed and patched.”

  Kaladin unfurled it. It was of a deep blue, with the glyphpair of khokh and linil sewn into the back in white embroidery.

  “Each man who wears my colors,” Dalinar said, “is of my family, in a way. The cloak is a simple gift, but it is one of the few things I can offer that has any meaning. Accept it with my gratitude, Kaladin Stormblessed.”

  Kaladin slowly refolded the cloak. “Where did you hear that name?”

  “Your men,” Dalinar said. “They think very highly of you. And that makes me think very highly of you. I need men like you, like all of you.” He narrowed his eyes, looking thoughtful. “The whole kingdom needs you. Perhaps all of Roshar. The True Desolation comes….”

  “What was that last part?”

  “Nothing,” Dalinar said. “Please, go get some rest, Captain. I hope to hear good news from you soon.”

  Kaladin nodded and withdrew, passing the two men who acted as Dalinar’s guard for the night. The hike back to his new barracks was a short one. Dalinar had given him one building for each of the bridge crews. Over a thousand men. What was he going to do with so many? He’d never commanded a group larger than twenty-five before.

  Bridge Four’s barrack was empty. Kaladin hesitated outside the doorway, looking in. The barrack was furnished with a bunk and locking chest for each man. It seemed a palace.

  He smelled smoke. Frowning, he rounded the barrack to find the men sitting around a firepit in the back, relaxing on stumps or stones, waiting as Rock cooked them a pot of stew. They were listening to Teft, who sat with his arm bandaged, speaking quietly. Shen was there; the quiet parshman sat at the very edge of the group. They’d recovered him, along with their wounded, from Sadeas’s camp.

  Teft cut off as soon as he saw Kaladin, and the men turned, most of them bearing bandages of some sort. Dalinar wants these for his bodyguards? Kaladin thought. They were a ragged bunch indeed.

  As it happened, however, he seconded Dalinar’s choice. If he were going to put his life in someone’s hands, he’d choose this group.

  “What are you doing?” Kaladin asked sternly. “You should all be resting.”

  The bridgemen glanced at each other.

  “It just…” Moash said. “It didn’t feel right to go to sleep until we’d had a chance to… well, do this.”

  “Hard to sleep on a day like this, gancho,” Lopen added.

  “Speak for yourself,” Skar said, yawning, wounded leg resting up on a stump. “But the stew is worth staying up for. Even if he does put rocks in it.”

  “I do not!” Rock snapped. “Airsick lowlanders.”

  They’d left a place for Kaladin. He sat down, using Dalinar’s cloak as a cushion for his back and head. He gratefully took a bowl of stew that Drehy handed him.

  “We’ve been talking about what the men saw today,” Teft said. “The things you did.”

  Kaladin hesitated, spoon to his mouth. He’d nearly forgotten—or maybe he’d intentionally forgotten—that he’d shown his men what he could do with Stormlight.
Hopefully Dalinar’s soldiers hadn’t seen. His Stormlight had been faint by then, the day bright.

  “I see,” Kaladin said, his appetite fleeing. Did they see him as different? Frightening? Something to be ostracized, as his father had been back in Hearthstone? Worse yet, something to be worshipped? He looked into their wide eyes and braced himself.

  “It was amazing!” Drehy said, leaning forward.

  “You’re one of the Radiants,” Skar said, pointing. “I believe it, even if Teft says you aren’t.”

  “He isn’t yet,” Teft snapped. “Don’t you listen?”

  “Can you teach me to do what you did?” Moash cut in.

  “I’ll learn too, gancho,” Lopen said. “You know, if you’re teaching and all.”

  Kaladin blinked, overwhelmed, as the others chimed in.

  “What can you do?”

  “How does it feel?”

  “Can you fly?’

  He held up a hand, stanching the questions. “Aren’t you alarmed by what you saw?”

  Several of the men shrugged.

  “It kept you alive, gancho,” Lopen said. “The only thing I’d be alarmed about is how irresistible the women would find it. ‘Lopen,’ they’d say, ‘you only have one arm, but I see that you can glow. I think that you should kiss me now.’”

  “But it’s strange and frightening,” Kaladin protested. “This is what the Radiants did! Everyone knows they were traitors.”

  “Yeah,” Moash said, snorting. “Just like everyone knows that the light-eyes are chosen by the Almighty to rule, and how they’re always noble and just.”

  “We’re Bridge Four,” Skar added. “We’ve been around. We’ve lived in the crem and been used as bait. If it helps you survive, it’s good. That’s all that needs to be said about it.”

  “So can you teach it?” Moash asked. “Can you show us how to do what you do?”

  “I… I don’t know if it can be taught,” Kaladin said, glancing at Syl, who bore a curious expression as she sat on a nearby rock. “I’m not certain what it is.”

  They looked crestfallen.

  “But,” Kaladin added, “that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try.”

  Moash smiled.

  “Can you do it?” Drehy asked, fishing out a sphere, a small glowing diamond chip. “Right now? I want to see it when I’m expecting it.”

  “It’s not a feastday sport, Drehy,” Kaladin said.

  “Don’t you think we deserve it?” Sigzil leaned forward on his stone.

  Kaladin paused. Then, hesitantly, he reached out a finger and touched the sphere. He inhaled sharply; drawing in the Light was becoming more and more natural. The sphere faded. Stormlight began to trickle from Kaladin’s skin, and he breathed normally to make it leak faster, making it more visible. Rock pulled out a ragged old blanket—used for kindling— and tossed it over the fire, disturbing the flamespren and making a few moments of darkness before the flames chewed through.

  In that darkness, Kaladin glowed, pure white Light rising from his skin.

  “Storms…” Drehy breathed.

  “So, what can you do with it?” Skar asked, eager. “You didn’t answer.”

  “I’m not entirely certain what I can do,” Kaladin said, holding his hand up in front of him. It faded in a moment, and the fire burned through the blanket, lighting them all again. “I’ve only known about it for sure for a few weeks. I can draw arrows toward me and can make rocks stick together. The Light makes me stronger and faster, and it heals my wounds.”

  “How much stronger does it make you?” Sigzil said. “How much weight can the rocks bear after you stick them together, and how long do they remain bonded? How much faster do you get? Twice as fast? A quarter again as fast? How far away can an arrow be when you draw it toward you, and can you draw other things as well?”

  Kaladin blinked. “I… I don’t know.”

  “Well, it seems pretty important to know that kind of stuff,” Skar said, rubbing his chin.

  “We can do tests,” Rock folded his arms, smiling. “Is good idea.”

  “Maybe it will help us figure out how we can do it too,” Moash noted.

  “Is not thing to learn.” Rock shook his head. “Is of the holetental. For him only.”

  “You don’t know that for certain,” Teft said.

  “You don’t know for certain I don’t know for certain.” Rock wagged a spoon at him. “Eat your stew.”

  Kaladin held up his hands. “You can’t tell anyone about this, men. They’ll be frightened of me, maybe think I’m related to the Voidbringers or the Radiants. I need your oaths on this.”

  He looked at them, and they nodded, one by one.

  “But we want to help,” Skar said. “Even if we can’t learn it. This thing is part of you, and you’re one of us. Bridge Four. Right?”

  Kaladin looked at their eager faces and couldn’t stop himself from nodding. “Yes. Yes, you can help.”

  “Excellent,” Sigzil said. “I’ll prepare a list of tests to gauge speed, accuracy, and the strength of these bonds you can create. We’ll have to find a way to determine if there’s anything else you can do.”

  “Throw him off cliff,” Rock said.

  “What good will that do?” Peet asked.

  Rock shrugged. “If he has other abilities, this thing will make them come out, eh? Nothing like falling from cliff to make a man out of a boy!”

  Kaladin regarded him with a sour expression, and Rock laughed. “It will be small cliff.” He held up his thumb and forefinger to indicate a tiny amount. “I like you too much for large one.”

  “I think you’re joking,” Kaladin said, taking a bite of his stew. “But just to be safe, I’m sticking you to the ceiling tonight to keep you from trying any experiments while I’m asleep.”

  The bridgemen chuckled.

  “Just don’t glow too brightly while we’re trying to sleep, eh, gancho?” Lopen said.

  “I’ll do my best.” He took another spoonful of stew. It tasted better than usual. Had Rock changed the recipe?

  Or was it something else? As he settled back to eat, the other bridgemen began chatting, speaking of home and their pasts, things that had once been taboo. Several of the men from other crews—wounded whom Kaladin had helped, even just a few lonely souls who were still awake— wandered over. The men of Bridge Four welcomed them, handing over stew and making room.

  Everyone looked as exhausted as Kaladin felt, but nobody spoke of turning in. He could see why, now. Being together, eating Rock’s stew, listening to the quiet chatter while the fire crackled and popped, sending dancing flakes of yellow light into the air…

  This was more relaxing than sleep could be. Kaladin smiled, leaning back, looking upward toward the dark sky and the large sapphire moon. Then he closed his eyes, listening.

  Three more men were dead. Malop, Earless Jaks, and Narm. Kaladin had failed them. But he and Bridge Four had protected hundreds of others. Hundreds who would never have to run a bridge again, would never have to face Parshendi arrows, would never have to fight again if they didn’t want to. More personally, twenty-seven of his friends lived. Partially because of what he’d done, partially because of their own heroism.

  Twenty-seven men lived. He’d finally managed to save someone.

  For now, that was enough.

  Shallan rubbed her eyes. She’d read through Jasnah’s notes—at least the most important ones. Those alone had made a large stack. She still sat in the alcove, though they’d sent a parshman to get her a blanket to wrap around herself, covering up the hospital robe.

  Her eyes burned from the night spent crying, then reading. She was exhausted. And yet she also felt alive.

  “It’s true,” she said. “You’re right. The Voidbringers are the parshmen. I can see no other conclusion.”

  Jasnah smiled, looking oddly pleased with herself, considering that she’d only convinced one person.

  “So what next?” Shallan asked.

  “That has to do
with your previous studies.”

  “My studies? You mean your father’s death?”

  “Indeed.”

  “The Parshendi attacked him,” Shallan said. “Killed him suddenly, without warning.” She focused on the other woman. “That’s what made you begin studying all of this, isn’t it?”

  Jasnah nodded. “Those wild parshmen—the Parshendi of the Shattered Plains—are the key.” She leaned forward. “Shallan. The disaster awaiting us is all too real, all too terrible. I don’t need mystical warnings or theological sermons to frighten me. I’m downright terrified in my own right.”

  “But we have the parshmen tamed.”

  “Do we? Shallan, think of what they do, how they’re regarded, how often they’re used.”

  Shallan hesitated. The parshmen were pervasive.

  “They serve our food,” Jasnah continued. “They work our storehouses. They tend our children. There isn’t a village in Roshar that doesn’t have some parshmen. We ignore them; we just expect them to be there, doing as they do. Working without complaint.

  “Yet one group turned suddenly from peaceful friends to slaughtering warriors. Something set them off. Just as it did hundreds of years ago, during the days known as the Heraldic Epochs. There would be a period of peace, followed by an invasion of parshmen who—for reasons nobody understood—had suddenly gone mad with anger and rage. This was what was behind mankind’s fight to keep from being ‘banished to Damnation.’ This was what nearly ended our civilization. This was the terrible, repeated cataclysm that was so frightening men began to speak of them as Desolations.

  “We’ve nurtured the parshmen. We’ve integrated them into every part of our society. We depend on them, never realizing that we’ve harnessed a highstorm waiting to explode. The accounts from the Shattered Plains speak of these Parshendi’s ability to communicate among themselves, allowing them to sing their songs in unison when far apart. Their minds are connected, like spanreeds. Do you realize what that means?”

  Shallan nodded. What would happen if every parshman on Roshar suddenly turned against his masters? Seeking freedom, or worse—vengeance? “We’d be devastated. Civilization as we know it could collapse. We have to do something!”