Stormlight Archive 01 - The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson

Author:Brandon Sanderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2010-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

“I walked from Abamabar to Urithiru.”

—This quote from the Eighth Parable of The Way of Kings seems to contradict Varala and Sinbian, who both claim the city was inaccessible by foot. Perhaps there was a way constructed, or perhaps Nohadon was being metaphorical.

Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive….

Kaladin’s mind felt fuzzy. He knew that he hurt, but other than that, he floated. As if his head were detached from his body and bouncing off the walls and ceilings.

“Kaladin!” a concerned voice whispered. “Kaladin, please. Please don’t be hurt anymore.”

Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive. Why did those words bother him so much? He remembered what had happened, using the bridge as a shield, throwing the army off, dooming the assault. Stormfather, he thought, I’m an idiot!

“Kaladin?”

It was Syl’s voice. He risked opening his eyes and looked out on an upside-down world, sky extending below him, familiar lumberyard in the air above him.

No. He was upside down. Hanging against the side of Bridge Four’s barrack. The Soulcast building was fifteen feet tall at its peak, with a shallowly slanted roof. Kaladin was tied by his ankles to a rope, which would—in turn—be affixed to a ring set into the slanted roof. He’d seen it happen to other bridgemen. One who had committed a murder in camp, another who had been caught stealing for the fifth time.

His back was to the wall so that he faced eastward. His arms were free, hanging down at his sides, and they almost touched the ground. He groaned again, hurting everywhere.

As his father had trained him, he began to prod his side to check for broken ribs. He winced as he found several that were tender, at least cracked. Probably broken. He felt at his shoulder too, where he feared that his collarbone was broken. One of his eyes was swollen. Time would show if he’d sustained any serious internal damage.

He rubbed his face, and flakes of dried blood cracked free and fluttered toward the ground. Gash on his head, bloodied nose, split lip. Syl landed on his chest, feet planted on his sternum, hands clasped before her. “Kaladin?”

“I’m alive,” he mumbled, words slurred by his swollen lip. “What happened?”

“You were beaten by those soldiers,” she said, seeming to grow smaller. “I’ve gotten back at them. I made one of them trip three times today.” She looked concerned.

He found himself smiling. How long could a man hang like this, blood going to his head?

“There was a lot of yelling,” Syl said softly. “I think several men were demoted. The soldier, Lamaril, he…”

“What?”

“He was executed,” Syl said, even more quietly. “Highprince Sadeas did it himself, the hour the army got back from the plateau. He said something about the ultimate responsibility falling on the lighteyes. Lamaril kept screaming that you had promised to absolve him, and that Gaz should be punished instead.”

Kaladin smirked ruefully. “He shouldn’t have had me beaten senseless. Gaz?”

“They left him in his position. I don’t know why.”

“Right of responsibility. In a disaster like this, the lighteyes are supposed to take most of the blame.

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