The Way of Kings

Kaladin froze. Then he spun. “What?”

“My spheres,” the strange man said, holding up what appeared to be a fully infused emerald broam. “Everyone knows that bridgemen are thieves, or at least beggars.”

Of course. He had been talking about spheres. He didn’t know about Kaladin’s… affliction. Did he? The man’s eyes twinkled as if at a grand joke.

“Don’t be insulted at being called a thief,” the man said, raising a finger. Kaladin frowned. Where had the sphere gone? He had been holding it in that hand. “I meant it as a compliment.”

“A compliment? Calling someone a thief?”

“Of course. I myself am a thief.”

“You are? What do you steal?”

“Pride,” the man said, leaning forward. “And occasionally boredom, if I may take the pride unto myself. I am the King’s Wit. Or I was until recently. I think I shall probably lose the title soon.”

“The king’s what?”

“Wit. It was my job to be witty.”

“Saying confusing things isn’t the same as being witty.”

“Ah,” the man said, eyes twinkling. “Already you prove yourself more wise than most who have been my acquaintance lately. What is it to be witty, then?”

“To say clever things.”

“And what is cleverness?”

“I…” Why was he having this conversation? “I guess it’s the ability to say and do the right things at the right time.”

The King’s Wit cocked his head, then smiled. Finally, he held out his hand to Kaladin. “And what is your name, my thoughtful bridgeman?”

Kaladin hesitantly raised his own hand. “Kaladin. And yours?”

“I’ve many.” The man shook Kaladin’s hand. “I began life as a thought, a concept, words on a page. That was another thing I stole. Myself. Another time, I was named for a rock.”

“A pretty one, I hope.”

“A beautiful one,” the man said. “And one that became completely worthless for my wearing it.”

“Well, what do men call you now?”

“Many a thing, and only some of them polite. Almost all are true, unfortunately. You, however, you may call me Hoid.”

“Your name?”

“No. The name of someone I should have loved. Once again, this is a thing I stole. It is something we thieves do.” He glanced eastward, over the rapidly darkening Plains. The little fire burning beside Hoid’s boulder shed a fugitive light, red from glimmering coals.

“Well, it was pleasant to meet you,” Kaladin said. “I will be on my way…”

“Not before I give you something.” Hoid picked up his flute. “Wait, please.”

Kaladin sighed. He had a feeling that this odd man was not going to let him escape until he was done.

“This is a Trailman’s flute,” Hoid said, inspecting the length of dark wood. “It is meant to be used by a storyteller, for him to play while he is telling a story.”

“You mean to accompany a storyteller. Being played by someone else while he speaks.”

“Actually, I meant what I said.”

“How would a man tell a story while playing the flute?”

Hoid raised an eyebrow, then lifted the flute to his lips. He played it differently from flutes Kaladin had seen – instead of holding it down in front of him, Hoid held it out to the side and blew across its top. He tested a few notes. They had the same melancholy tone that Kaladin had heard before.

“This story,” Hoid said, “is about Derethil and the Wandersail.”

He began to play. The notes were quicker, sharper, than the ones he’d played earlier. They almost seemed to tumble over one another, scurrying out of the flute like children racing one another to be first. They were beautiful and crisp, rising and falling scales, intricate as a woven rug.

Kaladin found himself transfixed. The tune was powerful, almost demanding. As if each note were a hook, flung out to spear Kaladin’s flesh and hold him near.

Hoid stopped abruptly, but the notes continued to echo in the chasm, coming back as he spoke. “Derethil is well known in some lands, though I have heard him spoken of less here in the East. He was a king during the shadowdays, the time before memory. A powerful man. Commander of thousands, leader of tens of thousands. Tall, regal, blessed with fair skin and fairer eyes. He was a man to envy.”

Just as the echoes faded below, Hoid began to play again, picking up the rhythm. He actually seemed to continue just where the echoing notes grew too soft, as if there had never been a break in the music. The notes grew more smooth, suggesting a king walking through court with his attendants. As Hoid played, eyes closed, he leaned forward toward the fire. The air he blew over the flute churned the smoke, stirring it.

The music grew softer. The smoke swirled, and Kaladin thought he could make out the face of a man in the patterns of smoke, a man with a pointed chin and lofty cheekbones. It wasn’t really there, of course. Just imagination. But the haunting song and the swirling smoke seemed to encourage his imagination.