Wind and Truth (The Stormlight Archive, #5)

by Brandon Sanderson

It was what they’d learned, in part, from the honorspren and from Maya. The deadeyes—all of them except Testament—had been bonded to ancient Radiants before the Recreance. Together they’d rejected their oaths, humans and spren alike. They’d thought it would cause a painful, but survivable split. Instead, something had gone terribly wrong.

“Shallan,” he said, and she looked up, meeting his eyes. “If it weren’t for that capacity, then what good would choices be? If we never had the power to do terrible things, then what heroism would it be to resist?”

“Some of us learned you could capture spren in gemstones,” he explained. “And Mishram—for all her power—is a spren. The Radiants prepared a flawless heliodor the color of sunlight, and they trapped her inside, then hid her prison. Not in the Physical Realm, and not in Shadesmar.” He bit his lip, then forced out another part. “In the Spiritual Realm. Melishi hid it there.”

That man he’d become after killing the Pursuer … that man frightened Kaladin. Even now, lit by calm sunlight. Remembering that man was like remembering a nightmare, and it caused painspren—like little severed hands—to appear on the balconies he passed, leaping off toward him.

“Is the wind a god?” Kaladin asked. “When this world was created,” Wit said, “long before Honor, Cultivation, or Odium arrived, Adonalsium left something behind on it. Sometimes it’s called the Old Magic. That term is often applied to the Nightwatcher, who came—with Cultivation’s efforts—from one of those ancient spren. Listen to the Wind when it speaks, Kaladin. It’s weaker than it once was, but it has seen so very much.”

“Ah, now there’s a question for the ages,” Wit said, leaning back. “What use is art? Why does it hold such meaning and potency? I can’t tell you, because the short answer is unappealing and the long answer takes months. I will instead say this: every society in every region of every planet I’ve visited—and I’ve been to quite a large number—has made art.”

“I’m confused,” Kaladin said. “What are you saying, Wit?” “That something is wrong,” Wit said, stalking across the room and throwing his hands into the air. “Something is horribly wrong, and has been for several days now, and I can’t figure out what it is. I’ve been waiting for the truth to come crashing down. I don’t know what to do or who to pray to, since the only true God I’ve known is the one we rejected and killed. So I’m sending you off, Kaladin. Hoping that if the Wind spoke to you, then some piece of that ancient deity is watching. Because when everything feels wrong, all I can do is hope.”

People don’t like hearing that their religion was mythologized, as if myth can’t be true. Regardless, Ancient Daughter, I’d think better of you than to bring up the Passions.”

“You think that kid who starved didn’t want to eat? You think her parents didn’t want to escape the ravages of war badly enough? You think if they’d had more Passion, the cosmere would have saved them? How convenient to believe that people are poor because they didn’t care enough about being rich. That they just didn’t pray hard enough. So convenient to make suffering their own fault, rather than life being unfair and birth mattering more than aptitude. Or storming Passion.”

“A virtue is something that is valuable even if it gives you nothing. A virtue persists without payment or compensation. Positive thinking is great. Vital. Useful. But it has to remain so even if it gets you nothing. Belief, truth, honor … if these exist only to get you something, you’ve missed the storming point.”

“This is where Jasnah is wrong about hope, smart though she is in so many ways. If hope doesn’t mean anything to you when you lose, then it wasn’t ever a virtue in the first place. It took me a long time to learn that, and I finally did so from the writings of a man who lost every belief he thought he had, then started over new.” “Sounds like someone wise,” Syl said. “Oh, Sazed is among the best. Hope I get to meet him someday.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do though,” Kaladin said. “War is coming, but I’m not involved. I’m just going to help a maniac return to his senses.” “That’s it, eh?” Wit said. “Just you becoming your world’s first therapist.” Kaladin glanced at Syl, who shook her head. “We have no idea what that is, Wit.” “Because,” Wit said, “you haven’t finished inventing it yet.”

“You know what first drew me to you, Kaladin?” Wit asked. “You did one of the most difficult things a man can do: you gave yourself a second chance.”

“But now what? Who am I without the spear?” “Won’t it be exciting to find out?” Wit said. “Have you ever wondered who you would be if there was no one you needed to save, no one you needed to kill? You’ve lived for others for so long, Kaladin. What happens when you try living for you?” Wit held up his finger. “I know you can’t answer yet. Go and find out.” With that, Wit bowed to him. “Thank you.” “For what?” Kaladin asked. “For the inspiration,” Wit said,

“I lay on the ground, battered and assaulted, and watched your husband rise in my defense against overwhelming odds. He saved me with no expectation of reward. In that moment I knew that Honor lived.” He nodded curtly to Shallan, then walked down the steps to talk with Adolin.

She watched him count the Windrunners, do the calculations in his mind, and come to the same conclusion. Almost. “How many of you,” Adolin said, “will it take to fly my horse home?”

“Sir?” Kaladin asked. “I’m sending Szeth with you.” “He’s the companion you promised me?” Kaladin said. “I return to my homeland,” Szeth said softly, “to set right what is wrong. To cleanse an evil. To achieve the Fourth Ideal, a Skybreaker must undertake a crusade of righteous cause. Upon completing it, I will be poised for the final step, in which a man becomes the law itself.

“Storms,” Kaladin said. “You think I can do something to help Szeth while he’s trying to ‘cleanse the evil’ of his homeland?” “Yes,” Dalinar said, firm. “You up to it, soldier?”

“I’m never alone,” the man said in his lightly accented voice. “Even without spren or sword, I’d have the voices.” He looked straight at Kaladin with all the emotion of a corpse. Storms. Dalinar wanted him to help that man? The assassin who had killed Dalinar’s own brother?

Storms. This was his true task: help a demigod overcome his megalomania. By Sigzil’s reports, Ishar had been taking spren from Shadesmar and bringing them physically to this realm—permanently killing them in the process. Creating twisted half-flesh bodies for them that could not survive.

Each of the Heralds was suffering some kind of severe mental trauma. Worse, Kaladin worried that their problems were partially supernatural in nature. Who was Kaladin to try to figure out the pathology of gods? He didn’t say any of this, because he knew the answer. Who was Kaladin to do this? The only person available. Stormfather help them all.

Shallan shrugged. “My way has its difficulties, but once in a while I see light that no one else seems to. Light reflecting off waves, breaking into sprays upon the ocean, making shapes appear for a heartbeat. The light reflecting in the eyes of someone I’m talking to, as if gleaming from their soul. In those moments, I know that what I am lets me see what others cannot. Those moments, I’m … if not grateful, then appreciative.”

Skar grinned. The man enjoyed all this a little too much. Kaladin had led, but Skar … he’d been born to teach. It took talent to be a good soldier, but a different kind entirely to make good soldiers.

“How much Stormlight do you have?” the Heavenly One asked, keeping her pinned despite her struggles. He slipped one hand away from her and pulled a knife from a sheath at his waist. “Shall we see how many times you can heal before it runs out? My brothers and sisters are mad from so long with life, but I am sane because I bathe in the blood of Radiants, which renews me.”

For years, Shallan had hated herself. Now she merely feared herself. That was progress.

An island was nearby, made by a small lake in the real world. There, Shallan was ecstatic to find Gallant trotting along, perfectly safe, exactly as Drehy had said. He was surrounded by an entire herd of glowing horses.

Adolin met him with a cry of delight, grabbing hold of his neck. The ethereal horses—musicspren, she’d been told, though she didn’t see the resemblance—galloped around them in the air. And Shallan noticed something she perhaps should have figured out long ago. She’d remarked, upon first entering Shadesmar, how Gallant had a strange afterimage glow. An outline that followed him, moved with him … Was there a musicspren bonded to him? Overlapping him? Eventually the herd moved off, giving Gallant nuzzles before going. All except one, who lingered, looking over its shoulder at Adolin. In a strangely intimate moment, this horselike spren trotted back and put its muzzle out to Adolin—who lifted his hand to touch it. The interaction lasted barely a moment, then the spren was off again, galloping through the air after the others.

“No dying,” Bisig said. “Is that an order, sir?” “You’re storming right it is,” Kaladin said, with a smile. “I simply want to say … I want to say that I trust you all. If you get a chance today, stop and take a look in a mirror, acknowledge what you’ve become. I don’t care about heritage or legacy. I care about what we are. The Windrunners are, and will remain, a force for good. Remember that is our purpose. Protect those who cannot protect themselves. That is who you are. Keep your ranks open for anyone who shares that ideal.”

“I create a country where there are no consequences. Is that so bad?” “You tell me,” she said in her infuriatingly calm way. Yes, it would be bad. He could see all the permutations of time, as well as attempts by other Shards like himself to do this very thing. By directly intervening on such a granular level, he risked creating a society where no one learned, and where civilization did not progress. By supernaturally forbidding warlords, he would also stifle scientists and artists. By removing the capacity for violence, he would also remove the capacity for mercy.

“Aren’t we,” she said, swaying in the dark room, “a little old for this, gemheart?” “I’ll take it up with the council, love,” he replied, his whiskers sharp on her skin. “The queen would like advice from her most brilliant of advisors: Is she too old for quality time with her husband? Perhaps she is too distinguished for an occasional tumble in the surf?”

She nodded absently, her eyes closed. So he held her, skin against skin, slick and warm. This was perfection. This was what he’d always wanted, and had never been able to find, until he met her. Not merely skin to skin. Soul to soul. He ran his fingers through her wet hair, massaging her scalp, her cheek against his chest. “I love you,” he whispered. She grinned back, and he picked her up off the ground a little, surrounded by joyspren, holding her tight.

He sighed, wrapping his arms around her again. “Is this ever going to end? We met not long before the Everstorm, and married in the middle of a war. I’ve had enough of wearing uniforms every day. Watching cities fall. Feeling that I need to hold on tight every time I have you in my arms, as I don’t know when the next chance will be.” “I know,” she whispered, head to his chest once more. “I want to kiss you until you can’t breathe and spend a week never leaving our rooms. But we can’t. Not yet. Mraize will try to hurt me, love. Prove that I was foolish to cross him. To get to me, he’ll capture or kill you if he can. I have to act before he does.”

The Mink looked up. Then took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, you are right. Of course you are right. I’m sorry—sometimes a love of tactics overshadows the heart. We must do what we can. Our best, then, to Azir. Enough to hold, but not so much to weaken other fronts. But who will lead them?” A beat, the room quiet. Navani held her breath. “I’ll go,” Adolin said, stepping into the illusion. “Father, let me recruit two thousand. I’ll ask for volunteers for what might be a difficult fight, and gather the best of them. With them and the Cobalt Guard, I’ll go to Azir and hold that city until reinforcements arrive.”

Free time was the greatest blessing in the world. Maybe that was why the men of the oceans sought to kill them and steal their sheep. It must make them angry to see such a perfect place as this. Those terrible men, like any petulant child, destroyed what they could not have.

“Once. It wasn’t a full Ascension, but a mortal did give up the power once. It proved to be the wrong choice, but it was the most selfless thing I believe I’ve ever witnessed. So yes, Dalinar, it is possible. But not easy.”

feel it, Gram!” Gav said, his hand beside hers. “I really feel it. The tower is alive…” “All things are,” she said. “Whether it’s the cup you drink from, the home you live in, or the air you breathe. All of it is part of this world given us by the Almighty, and everything in this world is alive. It is one of the ways we know God loves us.”

And surely He did. Even if the person who had held the power was dead, that was merely an avatar, a Vessel—not God. It was that Vessel Dalinar hoped to replace. If he did, would he then return to conventional belief as she hoped? His new ways, new teachings, weren’t strictly blasphemous, but things about them did make her uncomfortable.

Today, within that light, she saw herself as she could have been. Standing tall and proud, unafraid of the future, because the hand of someone loving rested on her shoulder.

What if she’d stayed there, in Rall Elorim, instead of … wherever the wind put her? Would she have become that girl—that confident young woman—with gleaming hair, wearing an Iriali short shirt, her shoulders and midriff exposed? As if she didn’t care that people saw she was growing up? This version of her didn’t seem afraid of anything.

Lift reached for that version of herself, her fingers barely visible in the light, and she thought she felt a comforting song flow through her. And that hand. On the shoulder, with tan skin and painted nails … so familiar. Though the rest of the figure was invisible, Lift knew that hand, so soft despite its calluses. If she could just hold it one more time

“I was drawn,” she said, “to willpower, determination, and a desire to protect. Yes, I like the way you dance with the wind when you use a spear, but it’s not the killing, Kaladin. It never was.”

“This is your dark brain talking,” she said. “You weren’t killing when you rescued Bridge Four. You pulled thirty men out of the darkness and the chasms, then you forged them into something wonderful.” “Yeah,” he said. “I forged them into killers.” “A family,” Syl said. “Don’t try to distort it. I was there, Kaladin. You did it because you couldn’t stand to let them keep dying. You did it out of love.”

He tried not to compare it to Rock’s stew, and it helped. He didn’t want to get into the habit of lowering his standards, but conversely, never being willing to reassess was just as bad. Maybe he was expecting too much from Szeth too quickly. Kaladin had been patient with Bridge Four. He could show the same patience here, despite the tension of a world close to breaking.

What would she have told him today? Care, he thought. Fight for something, not simply because you’re pointed that way by a monarch, no matter how beloved. It was something she’d whispered to him, even as he trained, even as Dalinar insisted Adolin become a soldier. Don’t just fight. Fight for something—something worthy of your heart. Adolin nodded to himself. He couldn’t save the men he’d left behind. But storms, he could do better this time. He would protect Azimir, whatever it took.

“Which you aren’t,” Kaladin said. “You told me you never were Truthless.” “So the sin of killing is still mine, as I should have stopped it?” Szeth said, feeling even worse. Walking this path was bad, so close to home. It made him think of a life he could have had. A life where he’d never picked up a weapon. “No,” Kaladin said. “I mean … Szeth, it’s all a mess. What your people did to you was wrong. Absolutely wrong. You shouldn’t have killed, but we need to focus on the now. Getting you to a healthy place. Then we can worry about the past.”

“People who think that we’re different,” Syl said, “don’t know you either. They look at you and see a perfect soldier.” “What do you see?” “Flaws,” she said. “Wonderful ones. I’ve never known perfection, Kaladin, but I should think it boring if I did.” “I think you might be close.” “To being boring?” she said. “That’s … not what I meant.” She grinned at him, but then leaned closer. “I’m not perfect, Kaladin. I think our flaws are what make us the most similar. We’ve both spent far too much of our lives living for other people.” “Me for the bridgemen. And you … for me, right?” She nodded.

Perhaps Szeth knew he was being baited, because he hesitated. But Kaladin had tried cajoling and offering help. This was another method of getting someone to talk: to assert something they found incorrect, and wait for them to explain why.

He hated this part. His father spoke of the excitement before a battle, the anticipation. Adolin understood some of that. He’d felt the same thing many times on the Shattered Plains … but it had changed for him a while back. Maybe it was a year at war, maybe it was the capture of the Thrill. But he swore it had started long before—perhaps as far back as when he and his father had been betrayed by Sadeas, and left alone to die. Since that day, Adolin had started to hate battle. He liked showing his skill, he liked wearing the Plate, but he’d begun to be nauseated by the butchery. It … it was silly, but he felt that the battlefield made a mockery of his dueling skills. He’d trained with the sword to better his life and test himself against others. Not to kill.

“This is what it’s about, Szeth,” Kaladin said. “It?” “What we do,” Kaladin said. “Being a watcher at the rim? This is why. My father never understood, and I suspect your people never did either. You can. This is what we fight for. Those looks. Those tears. That joy. Our duty has a cost, as you said—we are both proof of that. But if there’s a difference between us, it’s this: I know the why.” “I thought I knew why,” Szeth whispered. “Service to the law?” “To an ideal.” “Ideals are dead things,” Kaladin said, “unless they have people behind them. Laws exist not for themselves, but for those they serve.”

“He just watched Ashyn die,” the homunculus said. “It was one of his first great failures. Not his absolute first … but one of them. He spent the next weeks staring at the sky. Worrying that he was too old, at three thousand. That he was losing himself.” The thing stumbled away. “I must do that. I must do that…”