The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,318

large Horneater laughed. “Sit, my friend, sit! Is good you have come. Your face is more like scragglebark branches than a proper beard.”

“Shave it clean,” Kaladin said, sitting down on the stump. “And I’d rather not have a strange pattern like yours.”

“Ha!” Rock said, sharpening his razor. “You are a lowlander, my good friend. Is not right for you to wear a humaka’aban. I would have to thump you soundly if you tried this thing.”

“I thought you said fighting was beneath you.”

“Is allowed several important exceptions,” Rock said. “Now stop with your talking, unless you wish to be losing a lip.”

Rock began by trimming the beard down, then lathered and shaved, starting at the left cheek. Kaladin had never let another shave him before; when he’d first gone to war, he’d been young enough that he’d barely needed to shave at all. He’d grown into doing it himself as he got older.

Rock’s touch was deft, and Kaladin didn’t feel any nicks or cuts. In a few minutes, Rock stood back. Kaladin raised his fingers to his chin, touching smooth, sensitive skin. His face felt cold, strange to the touch. It took him back, transformed him—just a little—into the man he had been.

Strange, how much difference a shave could make. I should have done this weeks ago.

The riddens had turned to drizzle, heralding the storm’s last whispers. Kaladin stood up, letting the water wash bits of shorn hair from his chest. Baby-faced Dunny—the last of those waiting—sat down for his turn at being shaven. He hardly needed it at all.

“The shave suits you,” a voice said. Kaladin turned to see Sigzil leaning against the wall of the barrack, just under the roof’s overhang. “Your face has strong lines. Square and firm, with a proud chin. We would call it a leader’s face among my people.”

“I’m no lighteyes,” Kaladin said, spitting to the side.

“You hate them so much.”

“I hate their lies,” Kaladin said. “I hate it that I used to believe they were honorable.”

“And would you cast them down?” Sigzil asked, sounding curious. “Rule in their place?”

“No.”

This seemed to surprise Sigzil. To the side, Syl finally appeared, having finished frolicking in the winds of the highstorm. He always worried—just a little—that she’d ride away with them and leave him.

“Have you no thirst to punish those who have treated you so?” Sigzil asked.

“Oh, I’m happy to punish them,” Kaladin said. “But I have no desire to take their place, nor do I wish to join them.”

“I’d join them in a heartbeat,” Moash said, walking up behind. He folded his arms across his lean, well-muscled chest. “If I were in charge, things would change. The lighteyes would work the mines and the fields. They would run bridges and die by Parshendi arrows.”

“Won’t happen,” Kaladin said. “But I won’t blame you for trying.”

Sigzil nodded thoughtfully. “Have either of you ever heard of the land of Babatharnam?”

“No,” Kaladin said, glancing toward the camp. The soldiers were moving about now. More than a few were washing too. “That a funny name for a country, though.”

Sigzil sniffed. “Personally, I always thought Alethkar sounded like a ridiculous name. I guess it depends on where you were raised.”

“So why bring up Babab…” Moash said.

“Babatharnam,” Sigzil said. “I visited there once, with my master. They have very peculiar trees. The entire plant—trunk and all—lies down when a highstorm approaches, as if built on hinges. I was thrown in prison three times during our visit there. The Babath are quite particular about how you speak. My master was quite displeased at the amount he had to pay to free me. Of course, I think they were using any excuse to imprison a foreigner, as they knew my master had deep pockets.” He smiled wistfully. “One of those imprisonments was my fault. The women there, you see, have these patterns of veins that sit shallowly beneath their skin. Some visitors find it unnerving, but I found the patterns beautiful. Almost irresistible…”

Kaladin frowned. Hadn’t he seen something like that in his dream?

“I bring up Babath because they have a curious system of rule there,” Sigzil continued. “You see, the elderly are given office. The older you are, the more authority you have. Everyone gets a chance to rule, if they live long enough. The king is called the Most Ancient.”

“Sounds fair,” Moash said, walking over to join Sigzil beneath the overhang. “Better than deciding who rules based on eye color.”

“Ah yes,” Sigzil said. “The Babath are very fair. Currently, the Monavakah Dynasty reigns.”

“How can