For some weeks, I have been utterly addicted to Brandon Sanderson’s highly acclaimed fantasy series, The Stormlight Archive. I had started this series because it was renowned for its compelling and humorous characters who engaged in epic fights.

Going in, this was what I was expecting, and without a doubt, it fulfilled all of those promises. However, what set it apart as a series was the ethical dilemmas that the characters so often grappled with. I had not anticipated this level of philosophical depth in a fantasy series.

One of these dilemmas has shifted my perspective on justice, and I wish to share this thought-provoking dilemma with you. For some context, the conversation is between two people—Dalinar and Taravangian—discussing an ancient book about the travels of a great king. During his travel, the king, named Nohadan, came across a town where four people had been caught, among whom three were certain to be murderers however, there was no way to know who the innocent among the four was. Every person proclaimed himself to be the sole innocent one, but that could not be the case. The ensuing debate between Dalinar and Taravangian went somewhat like this:

“Why not let them all go?” Dalinar said. “If you can’t prove who is guilty—if you can’t be sure—I think you should let them go.”

“Yes … one innocent in four is too many for you. That makes sense too.” 

“No, any innocent is too many.”

 “You say that,” Taravangian said. “Many people do, but our laws will claim innocent men—for all judges are flawed, as is our knowledge. Eventually, you will execute someone who does not deserve it. This is the burden society must carry in exchange for order.” “I hate that,” Dalinar said softly.

“Yes … I do too. But it’s not a matter of morality, is it? It’s a matter of thresholds. How many guilty may be punished before you’d accept one innocent casualty? A thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred? When you consider, all calculations are meaningless except one. Has more good been done than evil? If so, then the law has done its job. And so … I must hang all four men.” He paused. “And I would weep, every night, for having done it.” 

“Nohadon eventually wrote,” Dalinar said, “that he took a modest approach. He imprisoned all four. Though the punishment should have been death, he mixed the guilt and innocence, and determined that the average guilt of the four should deserve only prison.” 

“He was unwilling to commit,” Taravangian said. “He wasn’t seeking justice, but to assuage his conscience.”

While reading this, in the beginning, I supported Dalinar’s viewpoint because it just seemed too cruel to sacrifice an innocent man to bring a couple to justice. However, as I read on, I began to set aside the rose-colored glasses I was using to view this situation. With the comparison to the modern judicial system, the whole moral dilemma became alive. Now it was not far away, entrapped in the confines of an imaginary parable, it was real. 

This gave me a new perspective; we might not be aware of it, but there must have been countless innocent people who were wrongly convicted of crimes, and many of them were also put to death. Not only is that the painful reality of the past, but it is also the crushing reality of the future. 

A person striking the gavel will always make a mistake in their judgment sooner or later, no matter how skilled the judge is. In the grand scheme of things, the innocent people will be few compared to the people who are rightfully put to justice. Therefore, it is a necessary sacrifice to maintain law and order in society. 

While legal reforms and training can mitigate this error, it can never be truly eradicated; innocent casualties will remain to some degree. This is the price of upholding justice in society. And the only way to uphold it is with hands covered in the blood of innocent men. This is the cost of justice. And we must live with this realization, weeping every day as Taravangian would.