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

Kaladin brought out his four marks. He hesitated when he saw them, however. Only one was still glowing with its soft crystal light. The other three were dull, the bits of diamond barely visible at the center of the drops of glass.

“Here now,” the apothecary said, squinting. “You trying to pass dun spheres off on me?” He snatched one before Kaladin could complain, then fished around under his counter. He brought up a jeweler’s loupe, removing his spectacles and holding the sphere up toward the light. “Ah. No, that’s a real gemstone. You should get your spheres infused, bridgeman. Not everyone is as trusting as I am.”

“They were glowing this morning,” Kaladin protested. “Gaz must have paid me with run-down spheres.”

The apothecary removed his loupe and replaced the spectacles. He selected three marks, including the glowing one.

“Could I have that one?” Kaladin asked.

The apothecary frowned.

“Always keep a glowing sphere in your pocket,” Kaladin said. “It’s good luck.”

“You certain you don’t want a love potion?”

“If you get caught in the dark, you’ll have light,” Kaladin said tersely. “Besides, as you said, most people aren’t as trusting as you.”

Reluctantly, the apothecary traded the infused sphere for the dead one—though he did check it with the loupe to be certain. A dun sphere was worth just as much as an infused one; all you had to do was leave it out in a highstorm, and it would recharge and give off light for a week or so.

Kaladin pocketed the infused sphere and picked up his purchase. He nodded farewell to the apothecary, and Syl joined him as he stepped out into the camp’s street.

He’d spent some of the afternoon listening to soldiers at the mess hall, and he’d learned some things about the warcamps. Things he should have learned weeks ago, but had been too despondent to care about. He now knew about the chrysalises on the plateaus, the gemhearts they contained, and the competition between the highprinces. He understood why Sadeas pushed his men so hard, and he was beginning to see why Sadeas turned around if they got to the plateau later than another army. That wasn’t very common. More often, Sadeas arrived first, and the other Alethi armies that came up behind them had to turn back.

The warcamps were enormous. All told, there were over a hundred thousand troops in the various Alethi camps, many times the population of Hearthstone. And that wasn’t counting the civilians. A mobile warcamp attracted a large array of camp followers; stationary warcamps like these on the Shattered Plains brought even more.

Each of the ten warcamps filled its own crater, and was filled with an incongruous mix of Soulcast buildings, shanties, and tents. Some merchants, like the apothecary, had the money to build a wooden structure. Those who lived in tents took them down for storms, then paid for shelter elsewhere. Even within the crater, the stormwinds were strong, particularly where the outer wall was low or broken. Some places—like the lumberyard—were completely exposed.

The street bustled with the usual crowd. Women in skirts and blouses—the wives, sisters, or daughters of the soldiers, merchants, or craftsmen. Workers in trousers or overalls. A large number of soldiers in leathers, carrying spear and shield. All were Sadeas’s men. Soldiers of one camp didn’t mix with those of another, and you stayed away from another brightlord’s crater unless you had business there.

Kaladin shook his head in dismay.

“What?” Syl asked, settling on his shoulder.

“I hadn’t expected there to be so much discord among the camps here. I thought it would all be one king’s army, unified.”

“People are discord,” Syl said.

“What does that mean?”

“You all act differently and think differently. Nothing else is like that—animals act alike, and all spren are, in a sense, virtually the same individual. There’s harmony in that. But not in you—it seems that no two of you can agree on anything. All the world does as it is supposed to, except for humans. Maybe that’s why you so often want to kill each other.”

“But not all windspren act alike,” Kaladin said, opening the box and tucking some of the bandages into the pocket he’d sewn into the inside of his leather vest. “You’re proof of that.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Maybe now you can see why it bothers me so.”

Kaladin didn’t know how to respond to that. Eventually, he reached the lumberyard. A few members of Bridge Four lounged in the shade on the east side of their barrack. It would be interesting to see one of those barracks get made—they were Soulcast directly from air into stone. Unfortunately, Soulcastings happened at night, and under strict guard to keep the holy rite from being witnessed by anyone other than ardents or very high-ranking lighteyes.

The first afternoon bell sounded right as Kaladin reached the barrack, and he caught a glare from Gaz for nearly being late for bridge duty. Most of that “duty” would be spent sitting around, waiting for the horns to blow. Well, Kaladin didn’t intend to waste time. He couldn’t risk tiring himself by carrying the plank, not when a bridge run could be imminent, but perhaps he could do some stretches or—

A horn sounded in the air, crisp and clean. It was like the mythical horn that was said to guide the souls of the brave to heaven’s battlefield. Kaladin froze. As always, he waited for the second blast, an irrational part of him needing to hear confirmation. It came, sounding a pattern indicating the location of the pupating chasmfiend.

Soldiers began to scramble toward the staging area beside the lumberyard; others ran into camp to fetch their gear. “Line up!” Kaladin shouted, dashing up to the bridgemen. “Storm you! Every man in a line!”

They ignored him. Some of the men weren’t wearing their vests, and they clogged the barrack doorway, all trying to get in. Those who had their vests ran for the bridge. Kaladin followed, frustrated. Once there, the men gathered around the bridge in a carefully prearranged manner. Each man got a chance to be in the best position: running in front up to the chasm, then moving to the relative safety of the back for the final approach.

There was a strict rotation, and errors were neither made nor tolerated. Bridge crews had a brutal system of self-management: If a man tried to cheat, the others forced him to run the final approach in front. That sort of thing was supposed to be forbidden, but Gaz turned a blind eye toward cheaters. He also refused bribes to let men change positions. Perhaps he knew that the only stability—the only hope—the bridgemen had was in their rotation. Life wasn’t fair, being a bridgeman wasn’t fair, but at least if you ran the deathline and survived, the next time you got to run at the back.