The Way of Kings (The Stormlight Archive 1)

“Stormfather! They’ll kill us! The highprinces will revolt! I won’t last a week!”

“They won’t be pleased, that’s for certain,” Dalinar said. “And yes, this will involve a great deal of danger. We’ll have to be much more careful with our guard. If you’re right, someone is already trying to kill you, so we should be doing that anyway.”

Elhokar stared at him, then looked at the broken furniture, rubbing his chest. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He tossed the seal to Elhokar. “You’re going to have your scribes draw up my appointment right after I leave.”

“But I thought you said it was wrong to force men to follow the Codes,” Elhokar said. “You said that the best way to change people was to live right, and then let them be influenced by your example!”

“That was before the Almighty lied to me,” Dalinar said. He still didn’t know what to think of that. “Much of what I told you, I learned from The Way of Kings. But I didn’t understand something. Nohadon wrote the book at the end of his life, after creating order—after forcing the kingdoms to unite, after rebuilding lands that had fallen in the Desolation.

“The book was written to embody an ideal. It was given to people who already had momentum in doing what was right. That was my mistake. Before any of this can work, our people need to have a minimum level of honor and dignity. Adolin said something to me a few weeks back, something profound. He asked me why I forced my sons to live up to such high expectations, but let others go about their errant ways without condemnation.

“I have been treating the other highprinces and their lighteyes like adults. An adult can take a principle and adapt it to his needs. But we’re not ready for that yet. We’re children. And when you’re teaching a child, you require him to do what is right until he grows old enough to make his own choices. The Silver Kingdoms didn’t begin as unified, glorious bastions of honor. They were trained that way, raised up, like youths nurtured to maturity.”

He strode forward, kneeling down beside Elhokar. The king continued to rub his chest, his Shardplate looking strange with the central piece missing.

“We’re going to make something of Alethkar, nephew,” Dalinar said softly. “The highprinces gave their oaths to Gavilar, but now ignore those oaths. Well, it’s time to stop letting them. We’re going to win this war, and we’re going to turn Alethkar into a place that men will envy again. Not because of our military prowess, but because people here are safe and because justice reigns. We’re going to do it—or you and I are going to die in the attempt.”

“You say that with eagerness.”

“Because I finally know exactly what to do,” Dalinar said, standing up straight. “I was trying to be Nohadon the peacemaker. But I’m not. I’m the Blackthorn, a general and a warlord. I have no talent for back-room politicking, but I am very good at training troops. Starting tomorrow, every man in each of these camps will be mine. As far as I’m concerned, they’re all raw recruits. Even the highprinces.”

“Assuming I make the proclamation.”

“You will,” Dalinar said. “And in return, I promise to find out who is trying to kill you.”

Elhokar snorted, beginning to remove his Shardplate piece by piece. “After that announcement goes out, discovering who’s trying to kill me will become easy. You can put every name in the warcamps on the list!”

Dalinar’s smile widened. “At least we won’t have to guess, then. Don’t be so glum, nephew. You learned something today. Your uncle doesn’t want to kill you.”

“He just wants to make me a target.”

“For your own good, son,” Dalinar said, walking to the door. “Don’t fret too much. I’ve got some plans on how, exactly, to keep you alive.” He opened the door, revealing a nervous group of guards keeping at bay a nervous group of servants and attendants.

“He’s just fine,” Dalinar said to them. “See?” He stepped aside, letting the guards and servants in to attend their king.

Dalinar turned to go. Then he hesitated. “Oh, and Elhokar? Your mother and I are now courting. You’ll want to start growing accustomed to that.”

Despite everything else that had happened in the last few minutes, this got a look of pure astonishment from the king. Dalinar smiled and pulled the door closed, walking away with a firm step.

Most everything was still wrong. He was still furious at Sadeas, pained by the loss of so many of his men, confused at what to do with Navani, dumbfounded by his visions, and daunted by the idea of bringing the warcamps to unity.

But at least now he had something to work with.

Shallan lay quietly in the bed of her little hospital room. She’d cried herself dry, then had actually retched into the bedpan, over what she had done. She felt miserable.

She’d betrayed Jasnah. And Jasnah knew. Somehow, disappointing the princess felt worse than the theft itself. This entire plan had been foolish from the start.

Beyond that, Kabsal was dead. Why did she feel so sick about that? He’d been an assassin, trying to kill Jasnah, willing to risk Shallan’s life to achieve his goals. And yet, she missed him. Jasnah hadn’t seemed surprised that someone would want to kill her; perhaps assassins were a common part of her life. She likely thought Kabsal a hardened killer, but he’d been sweet with Shallan. Could that all really have been a lie?

He had to be somewhat sincere, she told herself, curled up on her bed. If he didn’t care for me, why did he work so hard to get me to take the jam?

He had handed Shallan the antidote first, rather than taking it himself.

And yet, he did take it eventually, she thought. He put that fingerful of jam into his mouth. Why didn’t the antidote save him?

This question began to haunt her. As it did, something else struck her, something she would have noticed earlier, had she not been distracted by her own betrayal.

Jasnah had eaten the bread.

Arms wrapped around herself, Shallan sat up, pulling back to the bed’s headboard. She ate it, but she wasn’t poisoned, she thought. My life makes no sense lately. The creatures with the twisted heads, the place with the dark sky, the Soulcasting… and now this.

How had Jasnah survived? How?

With trembling fingers, Shallan reached to the pouch on the stand beside her bed. Inside, she found the garnet sphere that Jasnah had used to save her. It gave off weak light; most had been used in the Soulcasting. It was enough light to illuminate her sketchpad sitting beside the bed. Jasnah probably hadn’t even bothered to look through it. She was so dismissive of the visual arts. Next to the sketchpad was the book Jasnah had given her. The Book of Endless Pages. Why had she left that?

Shallan picked up the charcoal pencil and flipped through to a blank page in her sketchbook. She passed several pictures of the symbol-headed creatures, some set in this very room. They lurked around her, always. At some times, she thought she saw them in the corners of her eyes. At others, she could hear them whispering. She hadn’t dared speak back to them again.

She began to draw, fingers unsteady, sketching Jasnah on that day in the hospital. Sitting beside Shallan’s bed, holding the jam. Shallan hadn’t taken a distinct Memory, and wasn’t as accurate as if she had, but she remembered well enough to draw Jasnah with her finger stuck into the jam. She had raised that finger to smell the strawberries. Why? Why put her finger into the jam? Wouldn’t raising the jar to her nose have been enough?