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

by Brandon Sanderson

Eight weeks? Forty days of winter at once? That was rare.

So the weeks here are shorter, not 7 days.

“Father,” Renarin said. “For the Old Magic to have affected you, you’d have had to travel to the West and seek it. Wouldn’t you?” “Yes,” he said, ashamed. The empty place in his memories where his wife had once existed had never seemed as obvious to him as it did at that moment.

“The burdens of nine become mine. Why must I carry the madness of them all? Oh, Almighty, release me.” —Dated Palaheses, 1173, unknown seconds pre-death. Subject: a wealthy lighteyes. Sample collected secondhand.

“The foolishness of men who care, Dalinar,” Wit said. “And the brilliance of those who do not. The second depend on the first—but also exploit the first—while the first misunderstand the second, hoping that the second are more like the first. And all of their games steal our time. Second by second.”

“No, my friend,” Wit said, standing up. “I’ve abandoned my real name. But when next we meet, I’ll think of a clever one for you to call me. Until then, Wit will suffice—or if you must, you may call me Hoid.

“Sesemalex Dar,” Sigzil said, nodding, pulling off another boot. “Yes, it is the capital of the kingdom of Emul, and is one of the most ancient cities in the world. It is said that the city—and, indeed, the kingdom—were named by Jezrien himself.” “Jezrien?” Malop said, standing and scratching his head. “Who’s that?” Malop was a thick-haired fellow with a bushy black beard and a glyphward tattoo on each hand. He also wasn’t the brightest sphere in the goblet, so to speak. “You call him the Stormfather, here in Alethkar,” Sigzil said. “Or Jezerezeh’Elin. He was king of the Heralds. Master of the storms, bringer of water and life, known for his fury and his temper, but also for his mercy.”

this world of war and storms.

If this was published in 2025, this would be the title lol

if you must fight a man, then you have already failed. Killing is, at best, a brutish way of solving problems.”

Will I never stop hearing about Dalinar storming Kholin? Kaladin thought.

The King’s Wit cocked his head, then smiled. Finally, he held out his hand to Kaladin. “And what is your name, my thoughtful bridgeman?” Kaladin hesitantly raised his own hand. “Kaladin. And yours?” “I’ve many.” The man shook Kaladin’s hand. “I began life as a thought, a concept, words on a page. That was another thing I stole. Myself. Another time, I was named for a rock.” “A pretty one, I hope.” “A beautiful one,” the man said. “And one that became completely worthless for my wearing it.” “Well, what do men call you now?” “Many a thing, and only some of them polite. Almost all are true, unfortunately. You, however, you may call me Hoid.”

A story doesn’t live until it is imagined in someone’s mind.”

“The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.”

“My comments are often idle. I never can get them to do any solid work.

If we had to rely on what we knew, kings would only be of use in creating laws regarding the proper heating of tea and cushioning of thrones.’

‘And so, does the destination matter? Or is it the path we take? I declare that no accomplishment has substance nearly as great as the road used to achieve it. We are not creatures of destinations. It is the journey that shapes us. Our callused feet, our backs strong from carrying the weight of our travels, our eyes open with the fresh delight of experiences lived. “ ‘In the end, I must proclaim that no good can be achieved of false means. For the substance of our existence is not in the achievement, but in the method.

Dalinar, my friend, you always have been emotional. It makes you genuine. It can also get in the way of levelheaded thinking—but so long as it continues to prompt you to save my life, I think I can live with it.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose, by definition, I would have to, wouldn’t I?”

“The finest defense of character is correct action. Acquaint yourself with virtue, and you can expect proper treatment from those around you.”

They watch me. Always. Waiting. I see their faces in mirrors. Symbols, twisted, inhuman …”

“Men in power always pretend to virtue, or divine guidance, some kind of mandate to ‘protect’ the rest of us. If we believe that the Almighty put them where they are, it’s easier for us to swallow what they do to us.”

“We want to believe that there were better men once. That makes us think it could be that way again. But people don’t change. They are corrupt now. They were corrupt then.”

But what could be worse than being granted great power, yet still being too weak to save those he loved?

Why couldn’t men actually be like that? Why did they have to rely on dreams and fabrications for inspiration?

I’m on edge, as I imagine that we all are. At times, it seems to me that to be human is to want that which we cannot have. For some, this is power. For me, it is peace.”

“If there’s no curse or bad luck, no god above being angry at me—I have to live with knowing that with a little more effort—a little more practice or skill—I could have saved them.”

“I wish to sleep. I know now why you do what you do, and I hate you for it. I will not speak of the truths I see.”

This must come from someone in Kharbranth, who was dying and understood what the king was doing. Poor soul.

He didn’t force me to defer—it was simply how life was.”

But weakness can imitate strength if bound properly, just as cowardice can imitate heroism if given nowhere to flee.”

fight here because we understand. The end is the same. It is the path that separates men. When we taste that end, we will do so with our heads held high, eyes to the sun.”

And so I die, Dalinar thought, crashing into the Parshendi ranks. There he found peace. An unexpected emotion on the field of battle, but all the more welcome for that. He did, however, discover one regret: He was leaving poor Renarin as Kholin highprince, in over his head and surrounded by enemies grown fat on the flesh of his father and brother. I never did deliver that Shardplate I promised him, Dalinar thought. He will have to make his way without it. Honor of our ancestors protect you, son. Stay strong—and learn wisdom more quickly than your father did. Farewell.

Was there no hope for men? They killed those they should have loved. What good was it to fight, what good was it to win, if there was no difference between ally and enemy?

THE WORDS, a voice said, urgent, as if directly into his mind. In that moment, Kaladin was amazed to realize that he knew them, though they’d never been told to him. “I will protect those who cannot protect themselves,” he whispered. The Second Ideal of the Knights Radiant.

“Something just changed,” Moash whispered, hand up. “Something important.”

“What is a man’s life worth?” Dalinar asked softly. “The slavemasters say one is worth about two emerald broams,” Kaladin said, frowning. “And what do you say?” “A life is priceless,” he said immediately, quoting his father. Dalinar smiled, wrinkle lines extending from the corners of his eyes. “Coincidentally, that is the exact value of a Shardblade. So today, you and your men sacrificed to buy me twenty-six hundred priceless lives. And all I had to repay you with was a single priceless sword. I call that a bargain.” “You really think it was a good trade, don’t you?” Kaladin said, amazed. Dalinar smiled in a way that seemed strikingly paternal. “For my honor? Unquestionably.

“What am I?” Shallan whispered. “Truthfully?” It was a day for confrontation. She felt strangely strong, steady. Time to speak it. “I’m a murderer. I killed my father.”

“It is better for one man to sin than for a people to be destroyed, wouldn’t you say, Szeth-son-son-Vallano?”

Suffice it to say that each Radiant’s abilities were tied to the spren.”

Flame and char. Skin so terrible. Eyes like pits of blackness. Music when they kill.

but the legends lie about one thing,” Jasnah continued. “They claim we chased the Voidbringers off the face of Roshar or destroyed them. But that’s not how humans work. We don’t throw away something we can use.” Shallan rose, walking to the edge of the balcony, looking out at the lift, which was slowly being lowered by its two porters. Parshmen. With skin of black and red. Ash and fire. “Stormfather …” Shallan whispered, horrified. “We didn’t destroy the Voidbringers,” Jasnah said from behind, her voice haunted. “We enslaved them.”

They aren’t innocent, but neither are we. Not by a faint breeze or a stormwind.”

“Throw him off cliff,” Rock said. “What good will that do?” Peet asked. Rock shrugged. “If he has other abilities, this thing will make them come out, eh? Nothing like falling from cliff to make a man out of a boy!” Kaladin regarded him with a sour expression, and Rock laughed. “It will be small cliff.” He held up his thumb and forefinger to indicate a tiny amount. “I like you too much for large one.” “I think you’re joking,” Kaladin said, taking a bite of his stew. “But just to be safe, I’m sticking you to the ceiling tonight to keep you from trying any experiments while I’m asleep.” The bridgemen chuckled.

Twenty-seven men lived. He’d finally managed to save someone. For now, that was enough.

“Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination. Speak again the ancient oaths and return to men the Shards they once bore.” He turned to Dalinar, meeting his eyes. “The Knights Radiant must stand again.”

He’s realized that you, given time, will become your own enemies. That he doesn’t need to fight you. Not if he can make you forget, make you turn against one another. Your legends say that you won. But the truth is that we lost. And we are losing.”

“I am … I was … God. The one you call the Almighty, the creator of mankind.” The figure closed his eyes. “And now I am dead. Odium has killed me. I am sorry.”

In our hearts, we want to believe in—and would choose—great accomplishment and virtue. That’s why our lies, particularly to ourselves, are so beautiful.”

Given two works of artistic majesty, otherwise weighted equally, we will give greater acclaim to the one who did it first. It doesn’t matter what you create. It matters what you create before anyone else. “So it’s not the beauty itself we admire. It’s not the force of intellect. It’s not invention, aesthetics, or capacity itself. The greatest talent that we think a man can have?” He plucked one final string. “Seems to me that it must be nothing more than novelty.”

The man paused. He raised a hand to his head, wavering. “Who am I? I … I am Talenel’Elin, Stonesinew, Herald of the Almighty. The Desolation has come. Oh, God … it has come. And I have failed.” He slumped forward, hitting the rocky ground, Shardblade clattering down behind him. It did not vanish. The guards inched forward. One prodded the man with the butt of his spear. The man who had named himself a Herald did not move. “What is it we value?” Wit whispered. “Innovation. Originality. Novelty. But most importantly … timeliness. I fear you may be too late, my confused, unfortunate friend.”