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

by Brandon Sanderson

“The burdens of nine become mine. Why must I carry the madness of them all? Oh, Almighty, release me.”

“World spinning. What foolishness is this?” “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.”

“Adonalsium.”

“Is there a place where people live in gouges in the ground?” Kaladin said. “A city built in an enormous complex of lines, all set into the rock as if carved there?” “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.” “Oh,” Malop said.

“If I should die,” Dalinar said, “then I would do so having lived my life right. It is not the destination that matters, but how one arrives there.” “The Codes?” “No. The Way of Kings.” “That storming book.” “That storming book saved your life today, Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “I think I’m starting to understand what Gavilar saw in it.”

“But, I saw—” “What you saw belongs to you. A story doesn’t live until it is imagined in someone’s mind.” “What does the story mean, then?” “It means what you want it to mean,” Hoid said. “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.”

“Re-Shephir, the Midnight Mother, giving birth to abominations with her essence so dark, so terrible, so consuming. She is here! She watches me die!”

“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.”

‘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. “ ‘Those dear to me took fright for my safety and, perhaps, my sanity. Kings, they explained, do not walk like beggars for hundreds of miles. My response was that if a beggar could manage the feat, then why not a king? Did they think me less capable than a beggar? “ ‘Sometimes I think that I am. The beggar knows much that the king can only guess. And yet who draws up the codes for begging ordinances? Often I wonder what my experience in life—my easy life following the Desolation, and my current level of comfort—has given me of any true experience to use in making laws. 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.’

‘Regardless,’ “ Dalinar said, still quoting from The Way of Kings, “ ‘I made the trip and—as the astute reader has already concluded—survived it. The stories of its excitements will stain a different page in this narrative, for first I must explain my purpose in walking this strange path. Though I was quite willing to let my family think me insane, I would not leave the same as my cognomen upon the winds of history. “ ‘My family traveled to Urithiru via the direct method, and had been awaiting me for weeks when I arrived. I was not recognized at the gate, for my mane had grown quite robust without a razor to tame it. Once I revealed myself, I was carried away, primped, fed, worried over, and scolded in precisely that order. Only after all of this was through was I finally asked the purpose of my excursion. Couldn’t I have just taken the simple, easy, and common route to the holy city?’ ”

‘For my answer,’ “ Dalinar quoted, “ ‘I removed my sandals and proffered my callused feet. They were comfortable upon the table beside my half-consumed tray of grapes. At this point, the expressions of my companions proclaimed that they thought me daft, and so I explained by relating the stories of my trip. One after another, like stacked sacks of tallew, stored for the winter season. I would make flatbread of them soon, then stuff it between these pages. “ ‘Yes, I could have traveled quickly. But all men have the same ultimate destination. Whether we find our end in a hallowed sepulcher or a pauper’s ditch, all save the Heralds themselves must dine with the Nightwatcher. “ ‘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. The Monarch must understand this; he must not become so focused on what he wishes to accomplish that he diverts his gaze from the path he must take to arrive there.’

“Protesting simply draws attention to the issue,” Dalinar said. “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 …”

“Life before death,” Teft said, wagging a finger at Kaladin. “The Radiant seeks to defend life, always. He never kills unnecessarily, and never risks his own life for frivolous reasons. Living is harder than dying. The Radiant’s duty is to live. “Strength before weakness. All men are weak at some time in their lives. The Radiant protects those who are weak, and uses his strength for others. Strength does not make one capable of rule; it makes one capable of service.”

“Journey before destination. There are always several ways to achieve a goal. Failure is preferable to winning through unjust means. Protecting ten innocents is not worth killing one. In the end, all men die. How you lived will be far more important to the Almighty than what you accomplished.”

“Our own natures destroy us,” the regal man said, voice soft, though his face was angry. “Alakavish was a Surgebinder. He should have known better. And yet, the Nahel bond gave him no more wisdom than an ordinary man. Alas, not all spren are as discerning as honorspren.”

“Fair enough. Well, from what I understand, there are no primary accounts remaining. This was long, long ago. I do recall that the myth of Parasaphi and Nadris mentions the Desolations.” “Parasaphi,” Renarin said. “She’s the one who searched out the seedstones.” “Yes,” Navani replied. “In order to repopulate her fallen people, she climbed the peaks of Dara—the myth changes, listing different modern mountain ranges as the true peaks of Dara—to find stones touched by the Heralds themselves. She brought them to Nadris on his deathbed and harvested his seed to bring life to the stones. They hatched forth ten children, which she used to found a new nation. Marnah, I believe it was called.” “Origin of the Makabaki,” Renarin said. “Mother told me that story when I was a child.” Dalinar shook his head. “Born from rocks?” The old stories rarely made much sense to him, although the devotaries had canonized many of them. “The story mentions the Desolations at the beginning,” Navani said. “Giving them credit for having wiped out Parasaphi’s people.” “But what were they?” “Wars.” Navani took a sip of wine. “The Voidbringers came again and again, trying to force mankind off Roshar and into Damnation. Just as they once forced mankind—and the Heralds—out of the Tranquiline Halls.” “When were the Knights Radiant founded?” Dalinar asked.

“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.”

… Well, I’m a man of extremes, Navani. I discovered that when I was a youth. I’ve learned, repeatedly, that the only way to control those extremes is to dedicate my life to something. First it was Gavilar. Now it’s the Codes and the teachings of Nohadon. They’re the means by which I bind myself. Like the enclosure of a fire, meant to contain and control it.” He took a deep breath. “I’m a weak man, Navani. I really am. If I give myself a few feet of leeway, I burst through all of my prohibitions. The momentum of following the Codes these years after Gavilar’s death is what keeps me strong. If I let a few cracks into that armor, I might return to the man I once was. A man I never want to be again.”

Dai-Gonarthis! The Black Fisher holds my sorrow and consumes it!”

the Lifebrother himself sent you to me.” “To bloody myself so that you wouldn’t have to,” Szeth said. “Yes, that sounds like something one of your Vorin gods would do.”

“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.”

Talenel’Elin, Stonesinew, Herald of the Almighty. The Desolation has come. Oh, God … it has come. And I have failed.”