The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,302

surgeon, we will be proud. But don’t feel that you need to live your father’s life for him.” She looked down at Kaladin, blinking rainwater from her eyes.

“What else would I do?” Kaladin said, stupefied.

“There are many professions open to men with a good mind and training. If you really wished to study all the arts, you could become an ardent. Or perhaps a stormwarden.”

Stormwarden. He reached by reflex for the prayer sewn to his left sleeve, waiting for the day he’d need to burn it for aid. “They seek to predict the future.”

“It’s not the same thing. You’ll see. There are so many things to explore, so many places your mind could go. The world is changing. My family’s most recent letter describes amazing fabrials, like pens that can write across great distances. It might not be long before men are taught to read.”

“I’d never want to learn something like that,” Kaladin said, aghast, glancing at Tien. Was their own mother really saying these things? But then, she’d always been like this. Free, both with her mind and her tongue.

Yet, to become a stormwarden…They studied the highstorms, predicted them—yes—but learned about them and their mysteries. They studied the winds themselves.

“No,” Kaladin said. “I want to be a surgeon. Like my father.”

Hesina smiled. “If that’s what you choose, then—as I said—we will be proud of you. But father and I just want you to know that you can choose.”

They sat like that for some time, letting rainwater soak them. Kaladin kept searching those grey clouds, wondering what it was that Tien found so interesting in them. Eventually, he heard splashing below, and Lirin’s face appeared at the side of the house.

“What in the…” he said. “All three of you? What are you doing up here?”

“Feasting,” Kaladin’s mother said nonchalantly.

“On what?”

“On irregularity, dear,” she said.

Lirin sighed. “Dear, you can be very odd, you know.”

“And didn’t I just say that?”

“Point. Well, come on. There’s a gathering in the square.”

Hesina frowned. She rose and walked down the slope of the roof. Kaladin glanced at Tien, and the two of them stood. Kaladin stuffed the wooden horse in his pocket and picked his way down, careful on the slick rock, his shoes squishing. Cool water ran down Kaladin’s cheeks as he stepped off onto the ground.

They followed Lirin toward the square. Kaladin’s father looked worried, and he walked with the beaten-down slouch he was prone to lately. Maybe it was an affectation to fool Roshone, but Kaladin suspected there was some truth to it. His father didn’t like having to give up those spheres, even if it was part of a ruse. It was too much like giving in.

Ahead, a crowd was gathering at the town square, everyone holding umbrellas or wearing cloaks.

“What is it, Lirin?” Hesina asked, sounding anxious.

“Roshone is going to put in an appearance,” Lirin said. “He asked Waber to gather everyone. Full town meeting.”

“In the rain?” Kaladin asked. “Couldn’t he have waited for Lightday?”

Lirin didn’t reply. The family walked in silence, even Tien growing solemn. They passed some rainspren standing in puddles, glowing with a faint blue light, shaped like ankle-high melting candles with no flame. They rarely appeared except during the Weeping. They were said to be the souls of raindrops, glowing blue rods, seeming to melt but never growing smaller, a single blue eye at their tops.

The townspeople were mostly assembled, gossiping in the rain, by the time Kaladin’s family arrived. Jost and Naget were there, though neither waved to Kaladin; it had been years since they’d been anything resembling friends. Kaladin shivered. His parents called this town home, and his father refused to leave, but it felt less and less like “home” by the day.

I’ll be leaving it soon, he thought, eager to walk out of Hearthstone and leave these small-minded people behind. To go to a place where lighteyes were men and women of honor and beauty, worthy of the high station given them by the Almighty.

Roshone’s carriage approached. It had lost much of its luster during his years in Hearthstone, the golden paint flaking off, the dark wood chipped by road gravel. As the carriage pulled into the square, Waber and his boys finally got a small canopy erected. The rain had strengthened, and drops hit the cloth with a hollow drumming sound.

The air smelled different with all of these people around. Up on the roof, it had been fresh and clean. Now it seemed muggy and humid. The carriage door opened. Roshone had gained