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

Map of Alethi warcamps by the painter Vandonas, who visited the warcamps once and painted perhaps an idealized representation of them.





Ati was once a kind and generous man, and you saw what became of him. Rayse, on the other hand, was among the most loathsome, crafty, and dangerous individuals I had ever met.




Yeah, this was cut,” the portly leatherworker said, holding up the straps as Adolin watched. “Wouldn’t you agree, Yis?”

The other leatherworker nodded. Yis was a yellow-eyed Iriali, with stark golden hair. Not blond, golden. There was even a metallic sheen to it. He kept it short and wore a cap. Obviously, he didn’t want to draw attention to it. Many considered a lock of Iriali hair to be a ward of good luck.

His companion, Avaran, was an Alethi darkeyes who wore an apron over his vest. If the two men worked in the traditional way, one would labor on the larger, more robust pieces—like saddles—while the other specialized in fine detail. A group of apprentices toiled in the background, cutting or sewing hogshide.

“Sliced,” Yis agreed, taking the straps from Avaran. “I concur.”

“Well hie me to Damnation,” Adolin muttered. “You mean Elhokar was actually right?”

“Adolin,” a feminine voice said from behind. “You said we’d be going on a walk.”

“That’s what we’re doing,” he said, turning to smile. Janala stood with arms folded, wearing a sleek yellow dress of impeccable fashion, buttoning up the sides, cupping around the neck with a stiff collar embroidered with crimson thread.

“I had imagined,” she said, “that a walk would involve more walking.”

“Hm,” he said. “Yes. We’ll be getting right to that soon. It’ll be grand. Lots of prancing, sauntering, and, er …”

“Promenading?” Yis the leatherworker offered.

“Isn’t that a type of drink?” Adolin asked.

“Er, no, Brightlord. I’m fairly certain it’s another word for walking.”

“Well, then,” Adolin said. “We’ll do plenty of it too. Promenading. I always love a good promenading.” He rubbed his chin, taking the strap back. “How certain are you about this strap?”

“There’s really no room for question, Brightlord,” Avaran said. “That’s not a simple tear. You should be more careful.”

“Careful?”

“Yes,” Avaran said. “Make sure that no loose buckles are scraping the leather, cutting into it. This looks like it came from a saddle. Sometimes, people let the girth straps hang down when setting the saddle for the night, and they get pinched underneath something. I’d guess that caused the slice.”

“Oh,” Adolin said. “You mean it wasn’t cut intentionally?”

“Well, it could have been that,” Avaran said. “But why would someone cut a girth like this?”

Why indeed, Adolin thought. He bid farewell to the two leatherworkers, tucked the strap into his pocket, then held out his elbow to Janala. She took it with her freehand, obviously happy to finally be free of the leatherworking shop. It had a faint odor about it, though not nearly as bad as a tannery. He’d seen her reaching for her handkerchief a few times, acting as if she wanted to hold it up to her nose.

They stepped out into the midday sunlight. Tibon and Marks—two lighteyed members of the Cobalt Guard—waited outside with Janala’s handmaiden, Falksi, who was a young Azish darkeyes. The three fell into step behind Adolin and Janala as they walked out onto the street of the warcamp, Falksi muttering under her breath in an accented voice about the lack of a proper palanquin for her mistress.

Janala didn’t seem to mind. She breathed deeply of the open air and clung to his arm. She was quite beautiful, even if she did like to talk about herself. Talkativeness was normally an attribute he was fond of in a woman, but today he had trouble paying attention as Janala began telling him about the latest court gossip.

The strap had been cut, but the leatherworkers had both assumed that it was the result of an accident. That implied they’d seen cuts like this before. A loose buckle or other mishap slicing the leather.

Except this time, that cut had thrown the king in the middle of a fight. Could there be something to it?

“… wouldn’t you say, Adolin?” Janala asked.

“Undoubtedly,” he said, listening with half an ear.

“So you’ll talk to him?”

“Hum?”

“Your father. You’ll ask him about letting the men abandon that dreadfully unfashionable uniform once in a while?”

“Well, he’s rather set on the idea,” Adolin said. “Besides, it’s really not that unfashionable.”

Janala gave him a flat stare.

“All right,” he admitted. “It is a little drab.” Like every other high-ranked lighteyed officer in Dalinar’s army, Adolin wore a simple blue outfit of militaristic cut. A long coat of solid blue—no embroidery—and stiff trousers in a time when vests, silk accents, and scarves were the fashion. His father’s Kholin glyphpair was emblazoned quite obtrusively on the back and breast, and the front fastened with silver buttons up both sides. It was simple, distinctly recognizable, but awfully plain.

“Your father’s men love him, Adolin,” Janala said. “But his requirements are growing tiresome.”

“I know. Trust me. But I don’t think I can change his mind.” How to explain? Despite six years at war, Dalinar wasn’t weakening in his resolve to hold to the Codes. If anything, his dedication to them was strengthening.

At least now Adolin understood somewhat. Dalinar’s beloved brother had made one last request: Follow the Codes. True, that request had been in reference to a single event, but Adolin’s father was known to take things to extremes.

Adolin just wished he wouldn’t make the same requirement of everyone else. Individually, the Codes were only minor inconveniences— always be in uniform when in public, never be drunken, avoid dueling. In aggregate, however, they were burdensome.

His response to Janala was cut off as a set of horns blared through the camp. Adolin perked up, spinning, looking eastward toward the Shattered Plains. He counted off the next series of horns. A chrysalis had been spotted on plateau one-forty-seven. That was within striking distance!

He held his breath, waiting for a third series of horns to blare, calling Dalinar’s armies to battle. That would only happen if his father ordered it.

Part of him knew those horns wouldn’t come. One-forty-seven was close enough to Sadeas’s warcamp that the other highprince would certainly try for it.

Come on, Father, Adolin thought. We can race him for it!

No horns came.

Adolin glanced at Janala. She’d chosen music as her Calling and paid little attention to the war, though her father was one of Dalinar’s cavalry officers. From her expression, Adolin could tell that even she understood what the lack of a third horn meant.

Once again, Dalinar Kholin had chosen not to fight. “Come on,” Adolin said, turning and moving in another direction, practically towing Janala along by her elbow. “There’s something else I want to check into.”