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

“Stepping down would be far too much of an overreaction,” Danlan agreed. “Though, Adolin, I do wish you could get your father to relax all of these foolish restrictions our camp is under. You and the other Kholin men would be able to truly join society again.”

“I’ve tried,” he said, checking the position of the sun. “Trust me. And, unfortunately, I have a duel to prepare for. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Some more of Sadeas’s sycophants?” Jakamav asked.

“No,” Danlan said, smiling. “It’s Brightlord Resi. There’ve been some vocal provocations from Thanadal, and this might serve to shut his mouth.” She looked at Adolin fondly. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Thanks,” he said, rising, doing up the buttons on his coat. He kissed Danlan’s freehand, waved to the others, and trotted out onto the street.

That was something of an abrupt departure for me, he thought. Will they see how uncomfortable the discussion made me? Probably not. They didn’t know him as Renarin did. Adolin liked to be familiar with a large number of people, but not terribly close with any of them. He didn’t even know Danlan that well yet. He would make his relationship with her last, though. He was tired of Renarin teasing him for jumping in and out of courtships. Danlan was very pretty; it seemed the courtship could work.

He passed through the Outer Market, Toral’s words weighing on him. Adolin didn’t want to become highprince. He wasn’t ready. He liked dueling and chatting with his friends. Leading the army was one thing—but as highprince, he’d have to think of other things. Such as the future of the war on the Shattered Plains, or protecting and advising the king.

That shouldn’t have to be our problem, he thought. But it was as his father always said. If they didn’t do it, who would?

The Outer Market was far more disorganized than the markets inside Dalinar’s warcamp. Here, the ramshackle buildings—mostly built of stone blocks quarried from nearby—had grown up without any specific plan. A large number of the merchants were Thaylen, with their typical caps, vests, and long, wagging eyebrows.

The busy market was one of the few places where soldiers from all ten warcamps mingled. In fact, that had become one of the main functions of the place; it was neutral ground where men and women from different warcamps could meet. It also provided a market that wasn’t heavily regulated, though Dalinar had stepped in to provide some rules once the marketplace had begun to show signs of lawlessness.

Adolin nodded to a passing group of Kholin soldiers in blue, who saluted him. They were on patrol, halberds held at their shoulders, helms gleaming. Dalinar’s troops patrolled this place, and his scribes watched over it. All at his own cost.

His father didn’t like the layout of the Outer Market or its lack of walls. He said that a raid could be catastrophic to it, that it violated the spirit of the Codes. But it had been years since the Parshendi had raided the Alethi side of the Plains. And if they did decide to strike at the warcamps, the scouts and guards would give ample warning.

So what was the point of the Codes? Adolin’s father acted as if they were vitally important. Always be in uniform, always be armed, always stay sober. Be ever vigilant while under threat of attack. But there was no threat of attack.

As he walked through the market, Adolin looked—really looked—for the first time and tried to see what it was his father was doing.

He could pick out Dalinar’s officers easily. They wore their uniforms, as commanded. Blue coats and trousers with silver buttons, knots on the shoulders for rank. Officers who weren’t from Dalinar’s camp wore all kinds of clothing. It was difficult to pick them out from the merchants and other wealthy civilians.

But that doesn’t matter, Adolin told himself again. Because we’re not going to be attacked.

He frowned, passing a group of lighteyes lounging outside another winehouse. Much as he’d just been doing. Their clothing—indeed, their postures and mannerisms—made them look like they cared only about their revelry. Adolin found himself annoyed. There was a war going on. Almost every day, soldiers died. They did so while lighteyes drank and chatted.

Maybe the Codes weren’t just about protecting against the Parshendi. Maybe they were about something more—about giving the men commanders they could respect and rely on. About treating war with the gravity it deserved. Maybe it was about not turning a war zone into a festival. The common men had to remain on watch, vigilant. Therefore, Adolin and Dalinar did the same.

Adolin hesitated in the street. Nobody cursed at him or called for him to move—they could see his rank. They just went around him.

I think I see now, he thought. Why had it taken him so long?

Disturbed, he hurried on his way toward the day’s match.




“ ‘I walked from Abamabar to Urithiru,’ “ Dalinar said, quoting from memory. “ ‘In this, the metaphor and experience are one, inseparable to me like my mind and memory. One contains the other, and though I can explain one to you, the other is only for me.’ “

Sadeas—sitting beside him—raised an eyebrow. Elhokar sat on Dalinar’s other side, wearing his Shardplate. He’d taken to that more and more, sure that assassins were thirsting for his life. Together, they watched the men dueling down below, at the bottom of a small crater that Elhokar had designated the warcamps’ dueling arena. The rocky shelves running around the inside of the ten-foot-tall wall made excellent seating platforms.

Adolin’s duel hadn’t started yet, and the men who fought right now were lighteyes, but not Shardbearers. Their dull-edged dueling swords were crusted with a white, chalklike substance. When one achieved a hit on the other’s padded armor, it would leave a visible mark.

“So, wait,” Sadeas said to him. “This man who wrote the book …”

“Nohadon is his holy name. Others call him Bajerden, though we’re not certain whether that was actually his real name or not.”

“He decided to walk from where to where?”

“Abamabar to Urithiru,” Dalinar said. “I think it must have been a great distance, from the way the story is told.”

“Wasn’t he a king?”

“Yes.”

“But why—”

“It’s confusing,” Dalinar said. “But listen. You’ll see.” He cleared his throat and continued. “ ‘I strode this insightful distance on my own, and forbade attendants. I had no steed beyond my well-worn sandals, no companion beside a stout staff to offer conversation with its beats against the stone. My mouth was to be my purse; I stuffed it not with gems, but with song. When singing for sustenance failed me, my arms worked well for cleaning a floor or hogpen, and often earned me a satisfactory reward.