The Way of Kings, Part 1 (The Stormlight Archive #1.1)

“Besides,” Jasnah said, “I believe you might have made Taravangian laugh. He seems haunted by something lately.”

“You don’t find him dull, then?” Shallan asked, curious. She herself didn’t think the king dull or a fool, but she’d thought someone as intelligent and learned as Jasnah might not have patience for a man like him.

“Taravangian is a wonderful man,” Jasnah said, “and worth a hundred self-proclaimed experts on courtly ways. He reminds me of my uncle Dalinar. Earnest, sincere, concerned.”

“The lighteyes here say he’s weak,” Shallan said. “Because he panders to so many other monarchs, because he fears war, because he doesn’t have a Shardblade.”

Jasnah didn’t reply, though she looked disturbed.

“Brightness?” Shallan prodded, walking to her own seat and arranging her charcoals.

“In ancient days,” Jasnah said, “a man who brought peace to his kingdom was considered to be of great worth. Now that same man would be derided as a coward.” She shook her head. “It has been centuries coming, this change. It should terrify us. We could do with more men like Taravangian, and I shall require you to never call him dull again, not even in passing.”

“Yes, Brightness,” Shallan said, bowing her head. “Did you really believe the things you said? About the Almighty?”

Jasnah was quiet for a moment. “I do. Though perhaps I overstated my conviction.”

“The Assuredness Movement of rhetorical theory?”

“Yes,” Jasnah said. “I suppose that it was. I must be careful not to put my back toward you as I read today.”

Shallan smiled.

“A true scholar must not close her mind close on any topic,” Jasnah said, “no matter how certain she may feel. Just because I have not yet found a convincing reason to join one of the devotaries does not mean I never will. Though each time I have a discussion like the one today, my convictions grow firmer.”

Shallan bit her lip. Jasnah noticed the expression. “You will need to learn to control that, Shallan. It makes your feelings obvious.”

“Yes, Brightness.”

“Well, out with it.”

“Just that your conversation with the king was not entirely fair.”

“Oh?”

“Because of his, well, you know. His limited capacity. He did quite remarkably, but didn’t make the arguments that someone more versed in Vorin theology might have.”

“And what arguments might such a one have made?”

“Well, I’m not very well trained in that area myself. But I do think that you ignored, or at least minimized, one vital part of the discussion.”

“Which is?”

Shallan tapped at her breast. “Our hearts, Brightness. I believe because I feel something, a closeness to the Almighty, a peace that comes when I live my faith.”

“The mind is capable of projecting expected emotional responses.”

“But didn’t you yourself argue that the way we act—the way we feel about right and wrong—was a defining attribute of our humanity? You used our innate morality to prove your point. So how can you discard my feelings?”

“Discard them? No. Regard them with skepticism? Perhaps. Your feelings, Shallan—however powerful—are your own. Not mine. And what I feel is that spending my life trying to earn the favor of an unseen, unknown, and unknowable being who watches me from the sky is an exercise in sheer futility.” She pointed at Shallan with her pen. “But your rhetorical method is improving. We’ll make a scholar of you yet.”

Shallan smiled, feeling a surge of pleasure. Praise from Jasnah was more precious than an emerald broam.

But … I’m not going to be a scholar. I’m going to steal the Soulcaster and leave.

She didn’t like to think about that. That was something else she’d have to get over; she tended to avoid thinking about things that made her uncomfortable.

“Now hurry and be about the king’s sketch,” Jasnah said, lifting a book. “You still have a great deal of real work to do once you are done drawing.”

“Yes, Brightness,” Shallan said.

For once, however, she found sketching difficult, her mind too troubled to focus.





“They were suddenly dangerous. Like a calm day that became a tempest.”

—This fragment is the origin of a Thaylen proverb that was eventually reworked into a more common derivation. I believe it may reference the Voidbringers. See Ixsix’s Emperor, fourth chapter.




Kaladin walked from the cavernous barrack into the pure light of first morning. Bits of quartz in the ground sparkled before him, catching the light, as if the ground were sparking and burning, ready to burst from within.

A group of twenty-nine men followed him. Slaves. Thieves. Deserters. Foreigners. Even a few men whose only sin had been poverty. Those had joined the bridge crews out of desperation. The pay was good when compared with nothing, and they were promised that if they survived a hundred bridge runs, they would be promoted. Assignment to a watch post—which, in the mind of a poor man, sounded like a life of luxury. Being paid to stand and look at things all day? What kind of insanity was that? It was like being rich, almost.

They didn’t understand. Nobody survived a hundred bridge runs. Kaladin had been on two dozen, and he was already one of the most experienced living bridgemen.

Bridge Four followed him. The last of the holdouts—a thin man named Bisig—had given in yesterday. Kaladin preferred to think that the laughter, the food, and the humanity had finally gotten to him. But it had probably been a few glares or under-the-breath threats from Rock and Teft.

Kaladin turned a blind eye to those. He’d eventually need the men’s loyalty, but for now, he’d settle for obedience.

He guided them through the morning exercises he’d learned his very first day in the military. Stretches followed by jumping motions. Carpenters in brown work overalls and tan or green caps passed on their way to the lumberyard, shaking their heads in amusement. Soldiers on the short ridge above, where the camp proper began, looked down and laughed. Gaz watched from beside a nearby barrack, arms folded, single eye dissatisfied.

Kaladin wiped his brow. He met Gaz’s eye for a long moment, then turned back to the men. There was still time to practice hauling the bridge before breakfast.




Gaz had never gotten used to having just one eye. Could a man get used to that? He’d rather have lost a hand or a leg than that eye. He couldn’t stop feeling that something hid in that darkness he couldn’t see, but others could. What lurked there? Spren that would drain his soul from his body? The way a rat could empty an entire wineskin by chewing the corner?

His companions called him lucky. “That blow could have taken your life.” Well, at least then he wouldn’t have had to live with that darkness. One of his eyes was always closed. Close the other, and the darkness swallowed him.