The Way of Kings (88 page)

He slathered a piece for her, then wiped his fingers on his cloth and opened his book, flipping through the pages until he reached one that had a drawing on it. Shallan slid closer for a better look. The picture wasn’t of a person; it depicted a pattern of some kind. A triangular shape, with three outlying wings and a peaked center.

“Do you recognize this?” Kabsal asked.

It seemed familiar. “I feel that I should.”

“It’s Kholinar,” he said. “The Alethi capital, drawn as it would appear from above. See the peaks here, the ridges there? It was built around the rock formation that was already there.” He flipped the page. “Here’s Vedenar, capital of Jah Keved.” This one was a hexagonal pattern. “Akinah.” A circular pattern. “Thaylen City.” A four-pointed star pattern.

“What does it mean?”

“It is proof that the Almighty is in all things. You can see him here, in these cities. Do you see how symmetrical they are?”

“The cities were built by men, Kabsal. They wanted symmetry because it is holy.”

“Yes, but in each case they built around existing rock formations.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Shallan said. “I do believe, but I don’t know if
this
is proof. Wind and water can create symmetry; you see it in nature all the time. The men picked areas that were roughly symmetrical, then designed their cities to make up for any flaws.”

He turned to his basket again, rummaging. He came out with—of all things—a metal plate. As she opened her mouth to ask a question, he held up his finger again and set the plate down on a small wooden stand that raised it a few inches above the tabletop.

Kabsal sprinkled white, powdery sand on the sheet of metal, coating it. Then he got out a bow, the kind drawn across strings to make music.

“You came prepared for this demonstration, I see,” Shallan noted. “You really
did
want to make your case to Jasnah.”

He smiled, then drew the bow across the edge of the metal plate, making it vibrate. The sand hopped and bounced, like tiny insects dropped onto something hot.

“This,” he said, “is called cymatics. The study of the patterns that sounds make when interacting with a physical medium.”

As he drew the bow again, the plate made a sound, almost a pure note. It was actually enough to draw a single musicspren, which spun for a moment in the air above him, then vanished. Kabsal finished, then gestured to the plate with a flourish.

“So…?” Shallan asked.

“Kholinar,” he said, holding up his book for comparison.

Shallan cocked her head. The pattern in the sand looked
exactly
like Kholinar.

He dropped more sand on the plate and then drew the bow across it at another point and the sand rearranged itself.

“Vedenar,” he said.

She compared again. It was an exact match.

“Thaylen City,” he said, repeating the process at another spot. He carefully chose another point on the plate’s edge and bowed it one final time. “Akinah. Shallan, proof of the Almighty’s existence is in the very cities we live in. Look at the perfect symmetry!”

She had to admit, there was something compelling about the patterns. “It could be a false correlation. Both caused by the same thing.”

“Yes. The Almighty,” he said, sitting. “Our very language is symmetrical. Look at the glyphs—each one can be folded in half perfectly. And the alphabet too. Fold any line of text down across itself, and you’ll find symmetry. Surely you know the story, that both glyphs and letters came from the Dawnsingers?”

“Yes.”

“Even our names. Yours is nearly perfect. Shallan. One letter off, an ideal name for a lighteyed woman. Not
too
holy, but ever so close. The original names for the ten Silver Kingdoms. Alethela, Valhav, Shin Kak Nish. Perfect, symmetrical.”

He reached forward, taking her hand. “It’s here, around us. Don’t forget that, Shallan, no matter what she says.”

“I won’t,” she said, realizing how he’d guided the conversation. He’d said he believed her, but still he’d gone through his proofs. It was touching and annoying at the same time. She did not like condescension. But, then, could one really blame an ardent for preaching?

Kabsal looked up suddenly, releasing her hand. “I hear footsteps.” He stood, and Shallan turned as Jasnah walked into the alcove, followed by a parshman carrying a basket of books. Jasnah showed no surprise at the presence of the ardent.

“I’m sorry, Brightness Jasnah,” Shallan said, standing. “He—”

“You are not a captive, child,” Jasnah interrupted brusquely. “You are allowed visitors. Just be careful to check your skin for tooth marks. These types have a habit of dragging their prey out to sea with them.”

Kabsal flushed. He moved to gather up his things.

Jasnah waved for the parshman to place her books on the table. “Can that plate reproduce a cymatic pattern corresponding to Urithiru, priest? Or do you only have patterns for the standard four cities?”

Kabsal looked at her, obviously shocked to realize that she knew exactly what the plate was for. He picked up his book. “Urithiru is just a fable.”

“Odd. One would think that your type would be used to believing in fables.”

His face grew redder. He finished packing his things, then nodded curtly to Shallan and walked hastily from the room.

“If I may say so, Brightness,” Shallan said, “that was
exceptionally
rude of you.”

“I’m prone to such bouts of incivility,” Jasnah said. “I’m certain he has heard what I’m like. I simply wanted to make sure he got what he expected.”

“You haven’t acted that way toward other ardents in the Palanaeum.”

“The other ardents in the Palanaeum haven’t been working to turn my ward against me.”

“He wasn’t…” Shallan trailed off. “He was simply worried about my soul.”

“Has he asked you to try to steal my Soulcaster yet?”

Shallan felt a sudden spike of shock. Her hand went to the pouch at her waist. Did Jasnah know?
No,
Shallan told herself.
No, listen to the question.
“He didn’t.”

“Watch,” Jasnah said, opening a book. “He will eventually. I’ve experience with his type.” She looked at Shallan, and her expression softened. “He’s not interested in you. Not in any of the ways you think. In particular, this isn’t about your soul. It’s about me.”

“That is somewhat arrogant of you,” Shallan said, “don’t you think?”

“Only if I’m wrong, child,” Jasnah said, turning back to her book. “And I rarely am.”

“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. They like to make a show of obeying old precepts like that, when it suits them. Why am I still alive?”

“Something about an example,” Syl said, wrapping her translucent arms around herself. “Kaladin, I feel cold.”

“You can feel temperature?” Kaladin said, coughing.

“Not usually. I can now. I don’t understand it. I…I don’t like it.”

“It’ll be all right.”

“You shouldn’t lie.”

“Sometimes it’s all right to lie, Syl.”

“And this is one of those times?”

He blinked, trying to ignore his wounds, the pressure in his head, trying to clear his mind. He failed on all counts. “Yes,” he whispered.

“I think I understand.”

“So,” Kaladin said, resting his head back, the parietal knob of his skull resting against the wall, “I’m to be judged by the highstorm. They’ll let the storm kill me.”

Hanging here, Kaladin would be exposed directly to the winds and everything they would throw at him. If you were prudent and took appropriate action, it
was
possible to survive outside in a highstorm, though it was a miserable experience. Kaladin had done it on several occasions, hunkered down, taking shelter in the lee of a rock formation. But hanging on a wall facing directly stormward? He’d be cut to ribbons and crushed by stones.

“I’ll be right back,” Syl said, dropping off his chest, taking the form of a falling stone, then changing into windblown leaves near the ground and fluttering away, curving to the right. The lumberyard was empty. Kaladin could smell the crisp, chill air, the land bracing for a highstorm. The lull, it was called, when the wind fell still, the air cold, the pressure dropping, the humidity rising right before a storm.

A few seconds later, Rock poked his head around the wall, Syl on his shoulder. He crept up to Kaladin, a nervous Teft following. They were joined by Moash; despite the latter’s protests that he didn’t trust Kaladin, he looked almost as concerned as the other two.

“Lordling?” Moash said. “You awake?”

“I’m conscious,” Kaladin croaked. “Everyone get back from the battle all right?”

“All of our men, sure enough,” Teft said, scratching at his beard. “But we lost the battle. It was a disaster. Over two hundred bridgemen dead. Those who survived were only enough to carry eleven bridges.”

Two hundred men,
Kaladin thought.
That’s my fault. I protected my own at the cost of others. I was too hasty.

Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive. There’s something about that.
He wouldn’t be able to ask Lamaril. That man had gotten what he deserved, though. If Kaladin had the ability to choose, such would be the end of all lighteyes, the king included.

“We wanted to say something,” Rock said. “Is from all of the men. Most wouldn’t come out. Highstorm coming, and—”

“It’s all right,” Kaladin whispered.

Teft nudged Rock to continue.

“Well, is this. We will remember you. Bridge Four, we won’t go back to how we were. Maybe all of us will die, but we’ll show the new ones. Fires at night. Laughter. Living. We’ll make a tradition out of it. For you.” Rock and Teft knew about the knobweed. They could keep earning extra money to pay for things.

“You did this for us,” Moash put in. “We’d have died on that field. Perhaps as many as died in the other bridge crews. This way, we’re only going to lose one.”

“I say it isn’t right, what they’re doing,” Teft said with a scowl. “We talked about cutting you down….”