The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,399

Dalinar said, quoting from memory. “‘In this, the metaphor and experience are one, inseparable to me like my mind and memory. One contains the other, and though I can explain one to you, the other is only for me.’”

Sadeas—sitting beside him—raised an eyebrow. Elhokar sat on Dalinar’s other side, wearing his Shardplate. He’d taken to that more and more, sure that assassins were thirsting for his life. Together, they watched the men dueling down below, at the bottom of a small crater that Elhokar had designated the warcamps’ dueling arena. The rocky shelves running around the inside of the ten-foot-tall wall made excellent seating platforms.

Adolin’s duel hadn’t started yet, and the men who fought right now were lighteyes, but not Shardbearers. Their dull-edged dueling swords were crusted with a white, chalklike substance. When one achieved a hit on the other’s padded armor, it would leave a visible mark.

“So, wait,” Sadeas said to him. “This man who wrote the book…”

“Nohadon is his holy name. Others call him Bajerden, though we’re not certain whether that was actually his real name or not.”

“He decided to walk from where to where?”

“Abamabar to Urithiru,” Dalinar said. “I think it must have been a great distance, from the way the story is told.”

“Wasn’t he a king?”

“Yes.”

“But why—”

“It’s confusing,” Dalinar said. “But listen. You’ll see.” He cleared his throat and continued. “‘I strode this insightful distance on my own, and forbade attendants. I had no steed beyond my well-worn sandals, no companion beside a stout staff to offer conversation with its beats against the stone. My mouth was to be my purse; I stuffed it not with gems, but with song. When singing for sustenance failed me, my arms worked well for cleaning a floor or hogpen, and often earned me a satisfactory reward.

“‘Those dear to me took fright for my safety and, perhaps, my sanity. Kings, they explained, do not walk like beggars for hundreds of miles. My response was that if a beggar could manage the feat, then why not a king? Did they think me less capable than a beggar?

“‘Sometimes I think that I am. The beggar knows much that the king can only guess. And yet who draws up the codes for begging ordinances? Often I wonder what my experience in life—my easy life following the Desolation, and my current level of comfort—has given me of any true experience to use in making laws. If we had to rely on what we knew, kings would only be of use in creating laws regarding the proper heating of tea and cushioning of thrones.’”

Sadeas frowned at this. In front of them, the two swordsmen continued their duel; Elhokar watched keenly. He loved duels. Bringing in sand to coat the floor of this arena had been one of his first acts at the Shattered Plains.

“‘Regardless,’” Dalinar said, still quoting from The Way of Kings, “‘I made the trip and—as the astute reader has already concluded—survived it. The stories of its excitements will stain a different page in this narrative, for first I must explain my purpose in walking this strange path. Though I was quite willing to let my family think me insane, I would not leave the same as my cognomen upon the winds of history.

“‘My family traveled to Urithiru via the direct method, and had been awaiting me for weeks when I arrived. I was not recognized at the gate, for my mane had grown quite robust without a razor to tame it. Once I revealed myself, I was carried away, primped, fed, worried over, and scolded in precisely that order. Only after all of this was through was I finally asked the purpose of my excursion. Couldn’t I have just taken the simple, easy, and common route to the holy city?’”

“Exactly,” Sadeas interjected. “He could at the very least have ridden a horse!”

“‘For my answer,’” Dalinar quoted, “‘I removed my sandals and proffered my callused feet. They were comfortable upon the table beside my half-consumed tray of grapes. At this point, the expressions of my companions proclaimed that they thought me daft, and so I explained by relating the stories of my trip. One after another, like stacked sacks of tallew, stored for the winter season. I would make flatbread of them soon, then stuff it between these pages.

“‘Yes, I could have traveled quickly. But all men have the same ultimate destination. Whether we find our end in a hallowed sepulcher or a pauper’s ditch, all save the Heralds themselves must dine with