Words of Radiance (The Stormlight Archive 2)

Kaladin set his jaw, opening his eyes. No more moping. He would not whine or wallow. Yes, he’d lost Syl. He’d lost many loved ones during his life. He would survive this agony as he had survived the others.

He continued his limping circuit of the barracks. He did this four times a day. Sometimes Lopen came with him, but today Kaladin was alone. He splashed through puddles of water, and found himself smiling because he wore the boots Shallan had stolen from him.

I never did believe she was a Horneater, he thought. I need to make sure she knows that.

He stopped, leaning on the crutch and looking out through the rain toward the Shattered Plains. He couldn’t see far. The haze of rainfall prevented that.

You come back safely, he thought to those out there. All of you. This time, I can’t help you if something goes wrong.

Rock, Teft, Dalinar, Adolin, Shallan, everyone in Bridge Four—all out on their own. How different a place would the world be if Kaladin had been a better man? If he’d used his powers and had returned to the warcamp with Shallan full of Stormlight? He had been so close to revealing what he could do…

You’d been thinking that for weeks, he thought to himself. You’d never have done it. You were too scared.

He hated admitting it, but it was true.

Well, if his suspicions about Shallan were true, perhaps Dalinar would have his Radiant anyway. May she make a better run of it than Kaladin had.

He continued on his limping way, rounding back to Bridge Four’s barrack. He stopped when he saw a fine carriage, pulled by horses bearing the king’s livery, waiting in front of it.

Kaladin cursed, hobbling forward. Lopen ran out to meet him, not carrying an umbrella. A lot of people gave up on trying to stay dry during the Weeping.

“Lopen!” Kaladin said. “What?”

“He’s waiting for you, gancho,” Lopen said, gesturing urgently. “The king himself.”

Kaladin limped more quickly toward his room. The door was open, and Kaladin peeked in to find King Elhokar standing inside, looking about the small chamber. Moash guarded the door, and Taka—a former member of the King’s Guard—stood nearer to the king.

“Your Majesty?” Kaladin asked.

“Ah,” the king said, “bridgeman.” Elhokar’s cheeks were flushed. He’d been drinking, though he didn’t appear drunk. Kaladin understood. With Dalinar and that disapproving glare of his gone for a time, it was probably nice to relax with a bottle.

When Kaladin had first met the king, he’d thought Elhokar lacked regality. Now, oddly, he thought Elhokar did look like a king. It wasn’t that the king had changed—the man still had his imperious features, with that overly large nose and condescending manner. The change was in Kaladin. The things he’d once associated with kingship—honor, strength of arms, nobility—had been replaced with Elhokar’s less inspiring attributes.

“This is really all that Dalinar assigns one of his officers?” Elhokar asked, gesturing around the room. “That man. He expects everyone to live with his own austerity. It is as if he’s completely forgotten how to enjoy himself.”

Kaladin looked to Moash, who shrugged, Shardplate clinking.

The king cleared his throat. “I was told you were too weak to make the trip to see me. I see that might not be the case.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said. “I’m not well, but I walk the camp each day to rebuild my strength. I feared that my weakness and appearance might be offensive to the Throne.”

“You’ve learned to speak politically, I see,” the king said, folding his arms. “The truth is that my command is meaningless, even to a darkeyes. I no longer have authority in the eyes of men.”

Great. Here we go again.

The king waved curtly. “Out, you other two. I’d speak to this man alone.”

Moash glanced at Kaladin, looking concerned, but Kaladin nodded. With reluctance, Moash and Taka walked out, shutting the door, leaving them to the light of a few dwindling spheres that the king set out. Soon, those wouldn’t have any Stormlight to them at all—it had been too long without a highstorm. They’d need to break out candles and oil lamps.

“How did you know,” the king asked him, “how to be a hero?”

“Your Majesty?” Kaladin asked, sagging against his crutch.

“A hero,” the king said, waving flippantly. “Everyone loves you, bridgeman. You saved Dalinar, you fought Shardbearers, you came back after falling into the storming chasms! How do you do it? How do you know?”

“It’s really just luck, Your Majesty.”

“No, no,” the king said. He began pacing. “It’s a pattern, though I can’t figure it out. When I try to be strong, I make a fool of myself. When I try to be merciful, people walk all over me. When I try to listen to counsel, it turns out I’ve picked the wrong men! When I try to do everything on my own, Dalinar has to take over lest I ruin the kingdom.

“How do people know what to do? Why don’t I know what to do? I was born to this office, given the throne by the Almighty himself! Why would he give me the title, but not the capacity? It defies reason. And yet, everyone seems to know things that I do not. My father could rule even the likes of Sadeas—men loved Gavilar, feared him, and served him all at once. I can’t even get a darkeyes to obey a command to come visit the palace! Why doesn’t this work? What do I have to do?”

Kaladin stepped back, shocked at the frankness. “Why are you asking me this, Your Majesty?”

“Because you know the secret,” the king said, still pacing. “I’ve seen how your men regard you; I’ve heard how people speak of you. You’re a hero, bridgeman.” He stopped, then walked up to Kaladin, taking him by the arms. “Can you teach me?”

Kaladin regarded him, baffled.

“I want to be a king like my father was,” Elhokar said. “I want to lead men, and I want them to respect me.”

“I don’t…” Kaladin swallowed. “I don’t know if that’s possible, Your Majesty.”

Elhokar narrowed his eyes at Kaladin. “So you do still speak your mind. Even after the trouble it brought you. Tell me. Do you think me a bad king, bridgeman?”

“Yes.”

The king drew in a sharp breath, still holding Kaladin by the arms.

I could do it right here, Kaladin realized. Strike the king down. Put Dalinar on the throne. No hiding, no secrets, no cowardly assassination. A fight, him and me.

That seemed a more honest way to be about it. Sure, Kaladin would probably be executed, but he found that didn’t bother him. Should he do it, for the good of the kingdom?

He could imagine Dalinar’s anger. Dalinar’s disappointment. Death didn’t bother Kaladin, but failing Dalinar… Storms.

The king let go and stalked away. “Well, I did ask,” he muttered to himself. “I merely have to win you over as well. I will figure this out. I will be a king to be remembered.”

“Or you could do what is best for Alethkar,” Kaladin said, “and step down.”

The king stopped in place. He turned on Kaladin, expression darkening. “Do not overstep yourself, bridgeman. Bah. I should never have come here.”

“I agree,” Kaladin said. He found this entire experience surreal.