The Way of Kings

  Kaladin held up the liquor bottle. “Only after we have this out.”

  “What is it?” Rock leaned closer, squinting.

  “Knobweed sap. Or, rather, knobweed milk—I don’t think it’s really sap. Anyway, it’s a powerful antiseptic.”

  “Anti…what?” Teft asked.

  “It scares away rotspren,” Kaladin said. “They cause infection. This milk is one of the best antiseptics there is. Spread it on a wound that’s already infected, and it will still work.” That was good, because Leyten’s wounds had begun to turn an angry red, rotspren crawling all over.

  Teft grunted, then glanced at the bundles. “There are a lot of reeds here.”

  “I know,” Kaladin said, handing over the other two bottles. “That’s why I’m glad I don’t have to milk them all on my own.”

  Teft sighed, but sat down and untied a bundle. Rock did so without the complaining, sitting with his knees bent to the sides, feet pressed together to hold the bottle as he worked.

  A faint breeze blew up, rattling some of the reeds. “Why do you care about them?” Teft finally asked.

  “They’re my men.”

  “That’s not what being bridgeleader means.”

  “It means whatever we decide,” Kaladin said, noting that Syl had come over to listen. “You, me, the others.”

  “You think they’ll let you do that?” Teft asked. “The lighteyes and the captains?”

  “You think they’ll pay enough attention to even notice?”

  Teft hesitated, then grunted, milking another reed.

  “Perhaps they will,” Rock said. There was a surprising level of delicacy to the large man’s motions as he milked the reeds. Kaladin hadn’t thought those thick fingers would be so careful, so precise. “Lighteyes, they are often noticing those things that you wish they would not.”

  Teft grunted again, agreeing.

  “How did you come here, Rock?” Kaladin asked. “How does a Horneater end up leaving his mountains and coming to the lowlands?”

  “You shouldn’t ask those kinds of things, son,” Teft said, wagging a finger at Kaladin. “We don’t talk about our pasts.”

  “We don’t talk about anything,” Kaladin said. “You two didn’t even know each other’s names.”

  “Names are one thing,” Teft grumbled. “Backgrounds, they’re different. I—”

  “Is all right,” Rock said. “I will speak of this thing.”

  Teft muttered to himself, but he did lean forward to listen when Rock spoke.

  “My people have no Shardblades,” Rock said in his low, rumbling voice.

  “That’s not unusual,” Kaladin said. “Other than Alethkar and Jah Keved, few kingdoms have many Blades.” It was a matter of some pride among the armies.

  “This thing is not true,” Rock said. “Thaylenah has five Blades and three full suits of Plate, all held by the royal guards. The Selay have their share of both suits and Blades. Other kingdoms, such as Herdaz, have a single Blade and set of Plate—this is passed down through the royal line. But the Unkalaki, we have not a single Shard. Many of our nuatoma—this thing, it is the same as your lighteyes, only their eyes are not light—”

  “How can you be a lighteyes without light eyes?” Teft said with a scowl.

  “By having dark eyes,” Rock said, as if it were obvious. “We do not pick our leaders this way. Is complicated. But do not interrupt story.” He milked another reed, tossing the husk into a pile beside him. “The nuatoma, they see our lack of Shards as great shame. They want these weapons very badly. It is believed that the nuatoma who first obtains a Shardblade would become king, a thing we have not had for many years. No peak would fight another peak where a man held one of the blessed Blades.”

  “So you came to buy one?” Kaladin asked. No Shardbearer would sell his weapon. Each was a distinctive relic, taken from one of the Lost Radiants after their betrayal.

  Rock laughed. “Ha! Buy? No, we are not so foolish as this. But my nuatoma, he knew of your tradition, eh? It says that if a man kills a Shardbearer, he may take the Blade and Plate as his own. And so my nuatoma and his house, we made a grand procession, coming down to find and kill one of your Shardbearers.”

  Kaladin almost laughed. “I assume it proved more difficult than that.”

  “My nuatoma was not a fool,” Rock said, defensive. “He knew this thing would be difficult, but your tradition, it gives us hope, you see? Occasionally, a brave nuatoma will come down to duel a Shardbearer. Someday, one will win, and we will have Shards.”

  “Perhaps,” Kaladin said, tossing an empty reed into the chasm. “Assuming they agree to duel you in a bout to the death.”

  “Oh, they always duel,” Rock said, laughing. “The nuatoma brings many riches and promises all of his possessions to the victor. Your lighteyes, they cannot pass by a pond so warm! To kill an Unkalaki with no Shardblade, they do not see this thing as difficult. Many nuatoma have died. But is all right. Eventually, we will win.”

  “And have one set of Shards,” Kaladin said. “Alethkar has dozens.”

  “One is a beginning,” Rock said, shrugging. “But my nuatoma lost, so I am bridgeman.”

  “Wait,” Teft said. “You came all of this way with your brightlord, and once he lost, you up and joined a bridge crew?”

  “No, no, you do not see,” Rock said. “My nuatoma, he challenged Highprince Sadeas. Is well known that there are many Shardbearers here on Shattered Plains. My nuatoma thought it easier to fight man with only Plate first, then win Blade next.”

  “And?” Teft said.

  “Once my nuatoma lost to Brightlord Sadeas, all of us became his.”

  “So you’re a slave?” Kaladin asked, reaching up and feeling the marks on his forehead.

  “No, we do not have this thing,” Rock said. “I was not a slave of my nuatoma. I was his family.”

  “His family?” Teft said. “Kelek! You’re a lighteyes!”

  Rock laughed again, loud and full-bellied. Kaladin smiled despite himself. It seemed like so long since he’d heard someone laugh like that. “No, no. I was only umarti’a—his cousin, you would say.”

  “Still, you were related to him.”

  “On the Peaks,” Rock said, “the relatives of a brightlord are his servants.”

  “What kind of system is that?” Teft complained. “You have to be a servant to your own relatives? Storm me! I’d rather die, I think I would.”

  “It is not so bad,” Rock said.

  “You don’t know my relatives,” Teft said, shivering.

  Rock laughed again. “You would rather serve someone you do not know? Like this Sadeas? A man who is no relation to you?” He shook his head. “Lowlanders. You have too much air here. Makes your minds sick.”

  “Too much air?” Kaladin asked.

  “Yes,” Rock said.

  “How can you have too much air? It’s all around.”

  “This thing, it is difficult to explain.” Rock’s Alethi was good, but he sometimes forget to add in common words. Other times, he remembered them, speaking his sentences precisely. The faster he spoke, the more words he forgot to put in.

  “You have too much air,” Rock said. “Come to the Peaks. You will see.”

  “I guess,” Kaladin said, shooting a glance at Teft, who just shrugged. “But you’re wrong about one thing. You said that we serve someone we don’t know. Well, I do know Brightlord Sadeas. I know him well.”

  Rock raised an eyebrow.

  “Arrogant,” Kaladin said, “vengeful, greedy, corrupt to the core.”

  Rock smiled. “Yes, I think you are right. This man is not among the finest of lighteyes.”

  “There are no ‘finest’ among them, Rock. They’re all the same.”

  “They have done much to you, then?”

  Kaladin shrugged, the question uncovering wounds that weren’t yet healed. “Anyway, your master was lucky.”

  “Lucky to be slain by a Shardbearer?”

  “Lucky he didn’
t win,” Kaladin said, “and discover how he’d been tricked. They wouldn’t have let him walk away with Sadeas’s Plate.”

  “Nonsense,” Teft broke in. “Tradition—”

  “Tradition is the blind witness they use to condemn us, Teft,” Kaladin said. “It’s the pretty box they use to wrap up their lies. It makes us serve them.”

  Teft set his jaw. “I’ve lived a lot longer than you, son. I know things. If a common man killed an enemy Shardbearer, he’d become a lighteyes. That’s the way of it.”

  He let the argument lapse. If Teft’s illusions made him feel better about his place in this mess of a war, then who was Kaladin to dissuade him? “So you were a servant,” Kaladin said to Rock. “In a brightlord’s retinue? What kind of servant?” He struggled for the right word, remembering back to the times he’d interacted with Wistiow or Roshone. “A footman? A butler?”

  Rock laughed. “I was cook. My nuatoma would not come down to the lowlands without his own cook! Your food here, it has so many spices that you cannot taste anything else. Might as well be eating stones powdered with pepper!”

  “You should talk about food,” Teft said, scowling. “A Horneater?”

  Kaladin frowned. “Why do they call your people that, anyway?”

  “Because they eat the horns and shells of the things they catch,” Teft said. “The outsides.”

  Rock smiled, with a look of longing. “Ah, but the taste is so good.”

  “You actually eat the shells?” Kaladin asked.

  “We have very strong teeth,” Rock said proudly. “But there. You now know my story. Brightlord Sadeas, he wasn’t certain what he should do with most of us. Some were made soldiers, others serve in his house hold. I fixed him one meal and he sent me to bridge crews.” Rock hesitated. “I may have, uh, enhanced the soup.”

  “Enhanced?” Kaladin asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Rock seemed to grow embarrassed. “You see, I was quite angry about my nuatoma’s death. And I thought, these lowlanders, their tongues are all scorched and burned by the food they eat. They have no taste, and…”

  “And what?” Kaladin asked.

  “Chull dung,” Rock said. “It apparently has stronger taste than I assumed.”

  “Wait,” Teft said. “You put chull dung in Highprince Sadeas’s soup?”

  “Er, yes,” Rock said. “Actually, I put this thing in his bread too. And used it as a garnish on the pork steak. And made a chutney out of it for the buttered garams. Chull dung, it has many uses, I found.”

  Teft laughed, his voice echoing. He fell on his side, so amused that Kaladin was afraid he’d roll right into the chasm. “Horneater,” Teft finally said, “I owe you a drink.”

  Rock smiled. Kaladin shook his head to himself, amazed. It suddenly made sense.

  “What?” Rock said, apparently noticing his expression.

  “This is what we need,” Kaladin said. “This! It’s the thing I’ve been missing.”

  Rock hesitated. “Chull dung? This is the thing you need?”

  Teft burst into another round of laugher.

  “No,” Kaladin said. “It’s…well, I’ll show you. But first we need this knobweed sap.” They’d barely made their way through one of the bundles, and already his fingers were aching from the milking.

  “What of you, Kaladin?” Rock asked. “I have been telling you my story. You will tell me yours? How did you come to those marks on your forehead?”

  “Yeah,” Teft said, wiping his eyes. “Whose food did you trat in?”

  “I thought you said it was taboo to ask about a bridgeman’s past,” Kaladin said.

  “You made Rock share, son,” Teft said. “It’s only fair.”

  “So if I tell my story, that means you’ll tell yours?”

  Teft scowled immediately. “Now look, I ain’t going to—”

  “I killed a man,” Kaladin said.

  That quieted Teft. Rock perked up. Syl, Kaladin noticed, was still watching with interest. That was odd for her; normally, her attention wavered quickly.

  “You killed a man?” Rock said. “And after this thing, they made you a slave? Is not the punishment for murder usually death?”

  “It wasn’t murder,” Kaladin said softly, thinking of the scraggly bearded man in the slave wagon who had asked him these same questions. “In fact, I was thanked for it by someone very important.”

  He fell silent.

  “And?” Teft finally asked.

  “And…” Kaladin said, looking down at a reed. Nomon was setting in the west, and the small green disk of Mishim—the final moon—was rising in the east. “And it turns out that lighteyes don’t react very well when you turn down their gifts.”

  The others waited for more, but Kaladin fell silent, working on his reeds. It shocked him, how painful it still was to remember those events back in Amaram’s army.

  Either the others sensed his mood, or they felt what he’d said was enough, for they each turned back to their work and prodded no further.

  Neither point makes the things I have written to you here untrue.

  The king’s Gallery of Maps balanced beauty and function. The expansive domed structure of Soulcast stone had smooth sides that melded seamlessly with the rocky ground. It was shaped like a long loaf of Thaylen bread, and had large skylights in the ceiling, allowing the sun to shine down on handsome formations of shalebark.

  Dalinar passed one of these, pinks and vibrant greens and blues growing in a gnarled pattern as high as his shoulders. The crusty, hard plants had no true stalks or leaves, just waving tendrils like colorful hair. Except for those, shalebark seemed more rock than vegetation. And yet, scholars said it must be a plant for the way it grew and reached toward the light.

  Men did that too, he thought. Once.

  Highprince Roion stood in front of one of the maps, hands clasped behind his back, his numerous attendants clogging the other side of the gallery. Roion was a tall, light-skinned man with a dark, well-trimmed beard. He was thinning on top. Like most of the others, he wore a short, open-fronted jacket, exposing the shirt underneath. Its red fabric poked out above the jacket’s collar.

  So sloppy, Dalinar thought, though it was very fashionable. Dalinar just wished that current fashion weren’t so, well, sloppy.

  “Brightlord Dalinar,” Roion said. “I have difficulty seeing the point of this meeting.”

  “Walk with me, Brightlord Roion,” Dalinar said, nodding to the side.

  The other man sighed, but joined Dalinar and walked the pathway between the clusters of plants and the wall of maps. Roion’s attendants followed; they included both a cupbearer and a shieldbearer.

  Each map was illuminated by diamonds, their enclosures made of mirror-polished steel. The maps were inked, in detail, onto unnaturally large, seamless sheets of parchment. Such parchment was obviously Soulcast. Near the center of the chamber they came to the Prime Map, an enormous, detailed map fixed in a frame on the wall. It showed the entirety of the Shattered Plains that had been explored. Permanent bridges were drawn in red, and plateaus close to the Alethi side had blue glyphpairs on them, indicating which highprince controlled them. The eastern section of the map grew less detailed until the lines vanished.

  In the middle was the contested area, the section of plateaus where the chasmfiends most often came to make their chrysalises. Few came to the near side, where the permanent bridges were. If they did come, it was to hunt, not to pupate.

  Controlling the nearby plateaus was still important, as a highprince—by agreement—could not cross a plateau maintained by one of the others unless he had permission. That determined who had the best pathways to the central plateaus, and it also determined who had to maintain the watch-posts and permanent bridges on that plateau. Those plateaus were bought and sold among the highprinces.

  A second sheet of parchment to the side of the Prime Map listed each highprince and the number of gemhearts he had won. It was a very Alethi thing to do—maintain motivation by making it ve
ry clear who was winning and who lagged behind.

  Roion’s eyes immediately went to his own name on the list. Of all the highprinces, Roion had won the fewest gemhearts.

  Dalinar reached his hand up to the Prime Map, brushing the parchment. The middle plateaus were named or numbered for ease of reference. Foremost of them was a large plateau that stood defiantly near the Parshendi side. The Tower, it was called. An unusually massive and oddly shaped plateau that the chasmfiends seemed particularly fond of using as a spot for pupating.

  Looking at it gave him pause. The size of a contested plateau determined the number of troops you could field on it. The Parshendi usually brought a large force to the Tower, and they had rebuffed the Alethi assaults there twenty-seven times now. No Alethi had ever won a skirmish upon it. Dalinar had been turned back there twice himself.

  It was just too close to the Parshendi; they could always get there first and form up, using the slope to give them excellent high ground. But if we could corner them there, he thought, with a large enough force of our own… It could mean trapping and killing a huge number of Parshendi troops. Maybe enough of them to break their ability to wage war on the Plains.

  It was something to consider. Before that could happen, however, Dalinar would need alliances. He ran his fingers westward. “Highprince Sadeas has been doing very well lately.” Dalinar tapped Sadeas’s warcamp. “He’s been buying plateaus from other highprinces, making it easier and easier for him to get to the battlefields first.”

  “Yes,” Roion said, frowning. “One hardly needs to see a map to know that, Dalinar.”

  “Look at the scope of it,” Dalinar said. “Six years of continuous fighting, and nobody has even seen the center of the Shattered Plains.”

  “That’s never been the point. We hold them in, besiege them, starve them out, and force them to come to us. Wasn’t that your plan?”

  “Yes, but I never imagined it would take this long. I’ve been thinking that it might be time to change tactics.”

  “Why? This one works. Hardly a week goes by without a couple of clashes with the Parshendi. Though, might I point out that you have hardly been a model of inspiration in battle lately.” He nodded to Dalinar’s name on the smaller sheet.