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

Shallan spun, but Jasnah’s eyes were still closed. “I was wrong to judge you so harshly because of your prior education. I myself have often said that passion outperforms upbringing. You have the determination and the capacity to become a respected scholar, Shallan. I realize that the answers seem slow in coming, but continue your research. You will have them eventually.”

Shallan stood for a moment, hand in her pouch, heart thumping uncontrollably. She felt sick. I can’t do it, she realized. Stormfather, but I’m a fool. I came all of this way … and now I can’t do it!

She pulled her hand from her pouch and stalked back across the bathing chamber to her chair. What was she going to tell her brothers? Had she just doomed her family? She sat down, setting her book aside and sighing, prompting Jasnah to open her eyes. Jasnah watched her, then righted herself in the water and gestured for the hairsoap.

Gritting her teeth, Shallan stood up and fetched the soap tray for Jasnah, bringing it over and squatting down to proffer it. Jasnah took the powdery hairsoap and mashed it in her hand, lathering it before putting it into her sleek black hair with both hands. Even naked, Jasnah Kholin was composed and in control.

“Perhaps we have spent too much time indoors of late,” the princess said. “You look penned up, Shallan. Anxious.”

“I’m fine,” Shallan said brusquely.

“Hum, yes. As evidenced by your perfectly reasonable, relaxed tone. Perhaps we need to shift some of your training from history to something more hands-on, more visceral.”

“Like natural science?” Shallan asked, perking up.

Jasnah tilted her head back. Shallan knelt down on a towel beside the pool, then reached down with her freehand, massaging the soap into her mistress’s lush tresses.

“I was thinking philosophy,” Jasnah said.

Shallan blinked. “Philosophy? What good is that?” Isn’t it the art of saying nothing with as many words as possible?

“Philosophy is an important field of study,” Jasnah said sternly. “Particularly if you’re going to be involved in court politics. The nature of morality must be considered, and preferably before one is exposed to situations where a moral decision is required.”

“Yes, Brightness. Though I fail to see how philosophy is more ‘hands-on’ than history.”

“History, by definition, cannot be experienced directly. As it is happening, it is the present, and that is philosophy’s realm.”

“That’s just a matter of definition.”

“Yes,” Jasnah said, “all words have a tendency to be subject to how they are defined.”

“I suppose,” Shallan said, leaning back, letting Jasnah dunk her hair to clean off the soap.

The princess began scrubbing her skin with mildly abrasive soap. “That was a particularly bland response, Shallan. What happened to your wit?”

Shallan glanced at the bench and its precious fabrial. After all this time, she had proven too weak to do what needed to be done. “My wit is in temporary hiatus, Brightness,” she said. “Pending review by its colleagues, sincerity and temerity.”

Jasnah raised an eyebrow at her.

Shallan sat back on her heels, still kneeling on the towel. “How do you know what is right, Jasnah? If you don’t listen to the devotaries, how do you decide?”

“That depends upon one’s philosophy. What is most important to you?”

“I don’t know. Can’t you tell me?”

“No,” Jasnah replied. “If I gave you the answers, I’d be no better than the devotaries, prescribing beliefs.”

“They aren’t evil, Jasnah.”

“Except when they try to rule the world.”

Shallan drew her lips into a thin line. The War of Loss had destroyed the Hierocracy, shattering Vorinism into the devotaries. That was the inevitable result of a religion trying to rule. The devotaries were to teach morals, not enforce them. Enforcement was for the lighteyes.

“You say you can’t give me answers,” Shallan said. “But can’t I ask for the advice of someone wise? Someone who’s gone before? Why write our philosophies, draw our conclusions, if not to influence others? You yourself told me that information is worthless unless we use it to make judgments.”

Jasnah smiled, dunking her arms and washing off the soap. Shallan caught a victorious glimmer in her eye. She wasn’t necessarily advocating ideas because she believed them; she just wanted to push Shallan. It was infuriating. How was Shallan to know what Jasnah really thought if she adopted conflicting points of view like this?

“You act as if there were one answer,” Jasnah said, gesturing to Shallan to fetch a towel and climbing from the pool. “A single, eternally perfect response.”

Shallan hastily complied, bearing a large, fluffy towel. “Isn’t that what philosophy is about? Finding the answers? Seeking the truth, the real meaning of things?”

Toweling off, Jasnah raised an eyebrow at her.

“What?” Shallan asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“I believe it is time for a field exercise,” Jasnah said. “Outside of the Palanaeum.”

“Now?” Shallan asked. “It’s so late!”

“I told you philosophy was a hands-on art,” Jasnah said, wrapping the towel around herself, then reaching down and taking the Soulcaster out of its pouch. She slipped the chains around her fingers, securing the gemstones to the back of her hand. “I’ll prove it to you. Come, help me dress.”




As a child, Shallan had relished those evenings when she’d been able to slip away into the gardens. When the blanket of darkness rested atop the grounds, they had seemed a different place entirely. In those shadows, she’d been able to imagine that the rockbuds, shalebark, and trees were some foreign fauna. The scrapings of cremlings climbing out of cracks had become the footsteps of mysterious people from far-off lands. Large-eyed traders from Shinovar, a greatshell rider from Kadrix, or a narrowboat sailor from the Purelake.

She didn’t have those same imaginings when walking Kharbranth at night. Imagining dark wanderers in the night had once been an intriguing game—but here, dark wanderers were likely to be real. Instead of becoming a mysterious, intriguing place at night, Kharbranth seemed much the same to her—just more dangerous.

Jasnah ignored the calls of rickshaw pullers and palanquin porters. She walked slowly in a beautiful dress of violet and gold, Shallan following in blue silk. Jasnah hadn’t taken time to have her hair done following her bath, and she wore it loose, cascading across her shoulders, almost scandalous in its freedom.

They walked the Ralinsa—the main thoroughfare that led down the hillside in switchbacks, connecting Conclave and port. Despite the late hour, the roadway was crowded, and many of the men who walked here seemed to bear the night inside of them. They were gruffer, more shadowed of face. Shouts still rang through the city, but those carried the night in them too, measured by the roughness of their words and the sharpness of their tones. The steep, slanted hillside that formed the city was no less crowded with buildings than always, yet these too seemed to draw in the night. Blackened, like stones burned by a fire. Hollow remains.