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

by Brandon Sanderson

But expectations were like fine pottery. The harder you held them, the more likely they were to crack.

“Merchants is like mercenaries, my gammer always said. Only difference is that merchants will take your head off, then pretend to be your friend all the same.”

“For honor, Father,” Kal said. “Who tells stories about surgeons, for the Heralds’ sake!” “The children of the men and women whose lives we save,” Lirin said evenly, meeting Kal’s gaze. “That’s who tell stories of surgeons.”

“There are two kinds of people in this world, son,” his father said sternly. “Those who save lives. And those who take lives.”

“Tien!” Kaladin yelled. The boy looked toward him, eyes opening wide. He actually smiled. Behind him, the rest of the squad pulled back. Leaving the three untrained boys exposed.

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.

He was impressed by the Parshendi. He fought dozens of them, each with a slightly different style of combat. It seemed they were sending only two or four at him at a time. Their attacks were careful and controlled, and each pair fought as a team. They seemed to respect him for his skill. Most telling, they seemed to back away from fighting Skar or Teft, who were wounded, instead focusing on Kaladin, Moash, and the other spearmen who showed the most skill. These were not the wild, uncultured savages he had been led to expect. These were professional soldiers who held to an honorable battlefield ethic he had found absent in most of the Alethi. In them, he found what he’d always hoped he would find in the soldiers of the Shattered Plains. That realization rocked him. He found himself respecting the Parshendi as he killed them.

“We do not know why some speak when others do not,” Taravangian said. “But the dying see something. It began seven years ago, about the time when King Gavilar was investigating the Shattered Plains for the first time.” His eyes grew distant. “It is coming, and these people see it. On that bridge between life and the endless ocean of death, they view something. Their words might save us.” “You are a monster.” “Yes,” Taravangian said. “But I am the monster who will save this world.”

He plucked at his strings, letting the melody continue, twisting, haunting, yet with a faint edge of mockery. “And so,” he said, “in the end, what must we determine? Is it the intellect of a genius that we revere? If it were their artistry, the beauty of their mind, would we not laud it regardless of whether we’d seen their product before? “But we don’t. 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.”