The Way of Kings

“Derethil fought the Voidbringers during the days of the Heralds and Radiants,” Hoid said, eyes still closed, flute just below his lips, the song echoing in the chasm and seeming to accompany his words. “When there was finally peace, he found he was not content. His eyes always turned westward, toward the great open sea. He commissioned the finest ship men had ever known, a majestic vessel intended to do what none had dared before: sail the seas during a highstorm.”

The echoes tapered off, and Hoid began playing again, as if alternating with an invisible partner. The smoke swirled, rising in the air, twisting in the wind of Hoid’s breath. And Kaladin almost thought he could see an enormous ship in a shipyard, with a sail as large as a building, secured to an arrowlike hull. The melody became quick and clipped, as if to imitate the sounds of mallets pounding and saws cutting.

“Derethil’s goal,” Hoid paused and said, “was to seek the origin of the Voidbringers, the place where they had been spawned. Many called him a fool, yet he could not hold himself back. He named the vessel the Wandersail and gathered a crew of the bravest of sailors. Then, on a day when a highstorm brewed, this ship cast off. Riding out into the ocean, the sail hung wide, like arms open to the stormwinds…”

The flute was at Hoid’s lips in a second and he stirred the fire by kicking at a piece of rockbud shell. Sparks of flame rose in the air and smoke puffed, swirling as Hoid rotated his head down and pointed the flute’s holes at the smoke. The song became violent, tempestuous, notes falling unexpectedly and trilling with quick undulations. Scales rippled into high notes, where they screeched airily.

And Kaladin saw it in his mind’s eye. The massive ship suddenly miniscule before the awesome power of a highstorm. Blown, carried out into the endless sea. What had this Derethil hoped or expected to find? A highstorm on land was terrible enough. But on the sea?

The sounds bounced off the echoing walls below. Kaladin found himself sinking down to the rocks, watching the swirling smoke and rising flames. Seeing the tiny ship captured and held within a furious maelstrom.

Eventually, Hoid’s music slowed, and the violent echoes faded, leaving a much gentler song. Like lapping waves.

“The Wandersail was nearly destroyed in the crash, but Derethil and most of his sailors survived. They found themselves on a ring of small islands surrounding an enormous whirlpool, where, it is said, the ocean drains. Derethil and his men were greeted by a strange people with long, limber bodies who wore robes of single color and shells in their hair unlike any that grow back on Roshar.

“These people took the survivors in, fed them, and nursed them back to health. During his weeks of recovery, Derethil studied the strange people, who called themselves the Uvara, the People of the Great Abyss. They lived curious lives. Unlike the people in Roshar – who constantly argue – the Uvara always seemed to agree. From childhood, there were no questions. Each and every person went about his duty.”

Hoid began the music again, letting the smoke rise unhindered. Kaladin thought he could see in it a people, industrious, always working. A building rose among them with a figure at the window, Derethil, watching. The music was calming, curious.

“One day,” Hoid said, “while Derethil and his men were sparring to regain strength, a young serving girl brought them refreshment. She tripped on an uneven stone, dropping the goblets to the floor and shattering them. In a flash, the other Uvara descended on the hapless child and slaughtered her in a brutal way. Derethil and his men were so stunned that by the time they regained their wits, the child was dead. Angry, Derethil demanded to know the cause of the unjustified murder. One of the other natives explained. ‘Our emperor will not suffer failure.’”

The music began again, sorrowful, and Kaladin shivered. He witnessed the girl being bludgeoned to death with rocks, and the proud form of Derethil bowing above her fallen body.

Kaladin knew that sorrow. The sorrow of failure, of letting someone die when he should have been able to do something. So many people he loved had died.

He had a reason for that now. He’d drawn the ire of the Heralds and the Almighty. It had to be that, didn’t it?

He knew he should be getting back to Bridge Four. But he couldn’t pull himself away. He hung on the storyteller’s words.

“As Derethil began to pay more attention,” Hoid said, his music echoing softly to accompany him, “he saw other murders. These Uvara, these People of the Great Abyss, were prone to astonishing cruelty. If one of their members did something wrong – something the slightest bit untoward or unfavorable – the others would slaughter him or her. Each time he asked, Derethil’s caretaker gave him the same answer. ‘Our emperor will not suffer failure.’”