Wind and Truth (The Stormlight Archive, #5)

by Brandon Sanderson

Dalinar wavered a moment, then shook his head. “No. I’ve seen the visions as you wanted to present them, Stormfather. I will now see what actually occurred. I will find out what happened to Honor, and why his power has chosen no successor.” “So like your brother,” the Stormfather whispered. “So arrogant.”

“What are you afraid of?” Dalinar asked. “Stormfather? What lies have you been telling me!” Only the ones, the Stormfather said in his mind, that you deserve.

Her name was Shalash, but people called her Ash. Herald of the Almighty. Adolin hesitated, his guards and scribe for the day huddling behind him as they saw what he had. She sat beside a bed that held a mountain of a human being: Talenel, the Bearer of Agonies. The one they had left behind, and who—in finally breaking—had ushered in the return of the enemy. “What are you staring at, princeling?” Ash called to him. “I didn’t realize you were here,” he said. “We are an afterthought,” Ash said, shrugging. “Your father brought us to Azir on his campaign; it seems he wants to keep us near, hoping our wisdom will rub off on him. That makes him the greater fool, since we have no wisdom left. Only madness and grief.”

It was strange, to be sitting near this gurgling river in the night, surrounded by empty grasslands, simply playing. His life since reaching adulthood—before it, really—had been a nonstop sprint. Event after event, almost every one a disaster. He’d stopped only when forced to rest. Now something peaceful within him wanted to call to mind their faces. Friends he’d lost. Friends whose fates he didn’t know. Women he’d loved. Others who had loved him. Never the two intersecting, as was the perverse way of his life.

I deserve peace. The spear formed in his hand again, but then was Syl, laughing as they danced. I deserve to be happy. He tossed her as a spear from one hand, then caught her as a woman—Syl choosing when to be which, but him sensing each change. They turned, whirling, two hands holding two hands. I will enjoy this. I will let myself enjoy living. The darkness didn’t die, but it retreated as all darkness did before light. And as they twirled, Syl’s laughter calling to the sky, the Wind arrived and began dancing with them. The Wind began moving them both. Pushing him this way, then that. A swirling, gusting, powerful force. Alive, guiding his steps. I remember this, Kaladin thought. From my childhood. I remember moving, and the Wind joining me. I remember … peace and freedom. He danced through it, and Syl danced with him, both riding the eddies of the Wind. And if he’d ever known a perfect moment in his life—crystallized joy, like light made into something you could hold—this was it. Worries abandoned. No, worries battered away. Worries refused.

“It’s tradition,” Adolin said, “to give a handshake across the table after a game. One last lesson for tonight: Don’t ever get mad at a person you’re sparring with, especially when they defeat you. Their victory is training for you. More importantly, you need to be the kind of person the best duelists want to fight—because if you only ever face people you can beat, then you’ll never improve.”

“It’s idiocy,” Adolin said. “Pardon, Yanagawn—everyone celebrated him, but it’s pure idiocy. You know what I’d admire? A man who gave an oath, then realized it was storming stupid and broke it—apologized—and moved on with his life, determined not to make that kind of mistake again.” “Some might call that hypocrisy.” “No, it would just be—” Adolin cut off. Sometimes a hypocrite is just a man in the process of changing. Storming Dalinar Kholin had written that in his storming book. People quoted it all the time. Dalinar was always there, everywhere Adolin looked.

“An assassination,” Szeth said, falling into a fighting stance and reaching out to summon his Blade. “You ignore the rules of pilgrimage?” “No such rules apply,” Pozen said. “You are aspiring to a position no man has claimed in thousands of years. Such a lofty goal must come with a lofty test.”

“Prepare yourself, Szeth-son-Neturo,” Pozen said, hands on his Blade. “I could have killed you as you fell, but I have given you this chance out of what may be an overabundance of fondness for a former student.” “I have no weapon!” Szeth shouted. “I cannot fight you without one.” “Then you do not deserve to win.”

Szeth closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. To the spren of this Blade, to the spren of his land. He concentrated, and didn’t rely on the training that had never worked. Instead he focused on his quest. If he did not return, his people were doomed. And he would never find out how, or why, his father had died. To this urgent need, the Honorblade seemed to listen, and made up for his inadequacy.

“Of course he’s strong. But people break, and sometimes the strong ones break harder than the weak ones—because they’re the ones you pile everything on top of. You ever seen what happens when you put too much weight on a horse? I don’t care if it’s an old nag or a Ryshadium warhorse—you can break its spine, Noura.”

“It isn’t proper,” she finally said, “for our emperor to walk into battle. It violates tradition.” “I’ve been around enough scribes to know you make tradition. My father and I disagree on a number of things, but there’s one point on which we do agree: any man, anywhere, should have the right to pick up the spear or sword and fight for what he believes in. If you deny Yanagawn that, you deny him manhood itself.”

“Know for certain that one man doesn’t want your emperor’s throne, or his money, or his power. Consider that, then ask yourself why I care.”

He tried to follow, but found himself pulled toward another instead. A bond with someone whose love he didn’t deserve, yet sometimes still took for granted. Someone whose touch made him come alive, and whose smile made him a better man. She was … there. He found Navani’s hand and opened his eyes to her, seeing her in a hundred different variations, one after another, everything from a young maiden to an aged queen. That smile—that knowing smile—remained the same.

Sigzil countered, using multiple Lashings and thrusting upward, his lance going straight through the Heavenly One’s chest and piercing the gemheart. The malen’s Lashings continued carrying him downward—his burning eyes forming twin trails of smoke—as Sigzil pulled his weapon free. Fused always looked surprised when he killed them, as if they couldn’t fully believe that a common man had bested their millennia of experience. Fortunately for Sigzil, most of those millennia had been spent torturing Heralds rather than fighting.

Szeth-son-Neturo no longer danced with the wind. Had there been magic in his steps, in the breeze, in the music of the landscape? Or had he been a silly boy determined to make profound what was actually awkward and simple? The boys of the practice yards outside the Stoneward monastery left him with no such confusion. They lined up to prove themselves against him, and Szeth laid each one in the dust.

They think it’s an Oathstone, the Voice explained. They think you’re already a slave among your own people. An Oathstone. Szeth had heard of the practice—the final chance for an otherwise condemned soldier. These were allowed to take an oath on a sacred stone, then do service. They were rare enough he’d never met one.

These men loved him for it. It seemed he had found three different militaries in his life. One represented in the corrupt soldier he’d killed. Another represented in those of the camp, who enjoyed their easy lives. The final one was out here, among those assigned to defend their shores.

Always before, he’d held back. Sparring or engaging in quick clashes with foes had never given him a chance to truly become what he’d trained for. Among his own men, he was virtually untouchable. The enemy raiders proved to be of lesser skill. Limbs dropped. Men screamed. Blood mixed with water on the deck, lit by the too-regular glow of gemstone lanterns.

Szeth became death for the first time. Before, he’d borrowed that darkness. Today he embraced it. Three … four … seven men he dropped. Unstoppable.

Do you know why there are so few true swordmasters, Szeth? the Voice asked.

It’s because the consequences of mistakes are so high, the Voice said, conversationally. Even the best fighters must face battles where whims of fate can leave them dead in a moment. In true battle, men don’t get a chance to learn from mistakes. Szeth slumped to the deck, and the sounds of yells, of waves on the hull, of his own groans … softened. Dulled. Could sounds go out of focus? You show promise, the Voice said. Would you like another chance, Szeth? “Yes,” he whispered. “Please.”

A name meant something. Adolin had learned that when he clasped hands with a spearman and remembered his name, and saw a certain brightness ignited in the man’s eyes. Dark or light. Learning names carried a price, because Adolin knew the faces of the fallen. It was a price he’d pay again and again, because if you were going to die for someone, you could at least do it for someone who knew who you were.

“I remember,” he said, “when my father refused to let me join him in battle. I remember that humiliation, that anger. But Zabra … if I put you in, people will die. My soldiers. Your friends. However … this is your origin, your chance. You can storm away now and tell yourself my stupidity has prevented your heroism. “Or, you can make another choice. You can do as I’m asking, and you can run messages. Take the chance to learn your way around the military, see if there’s a spot for you. Probably not this battle, but maybe. Because every person I put on that field—messengers and medics alike—is a person in danger. A soldier. If those front lines break, the enemy is going to pour into this city. They’ll fight through the reserves next, and if the reserves fall…” He slid his knife from his side sheath and offered it to her. “In that event,” he said, “all that’s left will be you. I hope to the Halls above it won’t come to that, but if it does, you’ll get your chance to bleed. But only if you accept the opportunity I’m offering.”

“Being a stupid messenger girl,” she said. “Zabra, can you look me in the eyes and tell me you want to be the weak link in a shield wall?” She hesitated, then reached up and took the proffered knife from him. “Good,” he said. “First step to being a soldier: take responsibility for your part and what it can cost others if you don’t do a good job. Report to May Aladar. Say you’re a new messenger—and I will check to see you report correctly, Zabra. I’m dumb, but I’m not a fool.” “Yes, sir,” she grumbled.

“Tell May I said that if you serve well, she’s allowed to give you some archery training.” “… She?” Zabra said, sitting up. He nodded. “Combat archery isn’t something you can be taught in a few days, but if you want to live the dream of running off to join a foreign military, that’s likely ...

Learn from the past, and you could predict the future without needing any mystical talent.

“Yes,” Abidi said, “I know you. They say you’re the best. Did you know that the blood of Radiants quiets the voices in my mind, and takes away the edge of a thousand years of pain? If I bathe in it, they simmer, then slip away. Now that I know what you are, I can claim your corpse as my prize, and this city as my throne.” “Then come for me,” Adolin said, raising metal fists.

The soldiers had not cried. They’d bled their tears out long ago. He counted down seven rooms, walked to his bunk inside. Strange, how he could remember each place he’d ever slept for any length of time. Was that normal? Close his eyes, and he could easily imagine the floor of his home, beside his family. The barracks at Talmut’s monastery. Then here. A bunk that was a little too small, even for him. He knelt beside it and ran his fingers over the wood of the frame. He removed the loose block by the wall, reached in, and came out with a handful of scratchy wool. Sewn together into the shape of a lamb.

He’d been so strong, so sure he didn’t need anything, until that moment. Until he trembled, squeezed his eyes shut, then put the small toy to his forehead. And wept.

Szeth wasn’t Kaladin. Szeth was Tien. Szeth wasn’t the young man who had gone to war, determined to save and protect. He was the child who had been ripped from his peaceful life, then transformed into a killer against his will. A scared little boy who just yearned to go home.

“The world needs killers,” Kaladin said. “So if it can’t find them, it makes them out of whatever raw materials are at hand. Like children who love to dance.”

The chasms had been Bridge Four’s punishment at first, then their respite, then their shelter as they practiced. The very skills he now used as a warrior had been seeded in this network of tombs, where he’d first wielded a spear with those who would become his brothers.

“I’m not arguing with him,” Kaladin said. “I don’t even want to argue with you. I simply think that Szeth should think for himself a little more.” “I believe he is thinking for himself,” Nale said. “He has simply chosen answers you do not like. Why is it that all proponents of ‘free thinking’ only accept the answers they want? Anyone who agrees with them is a free thinker. Anyone who doesn’t? Why, they must be blinded by the oppressive norms of society, or are dancing on strings to the evil delight of those in control.”

“Why do you assume that you are smarter than the one who made the laws?” Nale said. “From what the spren tells me, you don’t have any answers—you don’t offer a better path. You simply tear down the one offered.” “But—” “Again, what would you have him do?” Nale said. “Other than ‘think for himself’? Do you have a replacement for his idealization?” “I think he shouldn’t have one!” “So you want to replace something grand with nothing. The true goal of every revolutionary. To tear down, rip apart, and destroy. You have no philosophy to cherish, therefore you seek to ruin others’, jealous that they have answers.

Szeth had no particular affinity for the Lightweavers. Though he’d trained with their arts by requirement, he hated the way they made comedy out of truth, practically worshipping lies.

As he walked the final path to the monastery, however, he found himself wondering. He’d imagined Lightweavers as strange beings who turned the truth into whatever they wanted it to be. But perhaps re-forming the truth into what you wanted it to be was not a trait merely of liars, but of all human beings.

Shouldn’t it be easy to tell what is good and evil? “We all pretend that it is,” Szeth said. “But if it were, then we would not disagree so much.” He walked into the ravine, with water trickling in from the brook to his right. “We almost all agree on the basics. Killing an innocent is evil. But what if it’s to save three innocents? What if you are an instrument, following what you thought was a higher law? What if you take a good action, it goes poorly, and innocents die?” Those seem like uncommon cases. “If only, sword-nimi. If only.”

She smiled at Nale. Sweetly, because a little sweetness enhanced basically any situation. Especially the ones where it made someone annoyed.

“I’ve been told, Adolin,” Gezamal said, squatting down by the table, “that you can turn almost any position into a winning one. These scenarios happen in real life—not as clearly, not as cleanly, but they are real. I’ve read of them.” “I’ve lived them,” Adolin said. “It works—separate enemy forces, gang up on the smaller one … It’s a good tactic, and one every military commander should know. Watch for chances to turn the battle in your favor, Yanagawn. Because almost any fight can be won.”

Gallant strained forward, pulling the wagon—which squealed in protest, but did move. Adolin’s soldiers charged with him. They somehow had to fight a beast made entirely of stone. Thirty feet tall, with glowing red eyes and a face that evoked the lean, arrowheaded danger of an axehound. This particular thunderclast was more feral-looking than the one Adolin had fought—and failed to defeat—in Thaylen City.

She hesitated, trying to imagine being unable to write. There was a tendency in records for women to fondly imagine their husbands as big clumsy beasts, uncaring for details or nuance. With embarrassment, she remembered a few such comparisons in her own mind. But how much easier was it to remember details and discover nuance when you could write them out, discuss them via letters, ponder and record your thoughts? Storms, even look at a timeline? She was quite aware of the injustices done to women by their society. That did not discount the different but still debilitating ones done to men.

Dalinar met her eyes and nodded. He had the Connection, the pathway. An anchor forged of their own natures, history, and bonds. “I am in awe, Navani. I didn’t realize your scholarly methods could help us understand the ways of the gods.” “Dalinar,” she said, “understanding the ways of God is the primary purpose of science.”

The Spiritual Realm was overwhelming to the senses—and he disliked that—but it wasn’t frightening. He knew why he was here, and he knew what he was. No longer was Renarin a scared child needing Adolin to rescue him. No longer was he an abomination needing to hide while simultaneously feeling he must share what he knew, in case it helped his father. He was Radiant. He was Truthwatcher. He was Glys’s companion. He was Bridge Four. So much about the world didn’t make sense to him, but he knew why he was here, and that gave him a path forward. Strangely, he found he didn’t fear even the gods. What was the worst they could do? Destroy him? In the face of the terrors he’d lived through—the terror of not knowing if he was mad, or if he’d somehow been corrupted and was serving evil—simple mortality seemed a distant nightmare, barely remembered.

“The Wind likes your songs, Kaladin. She carries them away to cherish.”

He worried that more of his friends might have died during this most recent fighting, though the spanreed had given no relevant news tonight. He played for them as well. A melancholy song, but not a painful one. With the song’s help, he felt … felt he could remember the fallen—but remarkably, not feel their loss was his fault.

Are we … just going to ignore … that you’re the daughter of a Herald? Pattern said. Shallan, Heralds are like spren—they don’t die permanently, not even by Shardblades. She’s still alive somewhere. “I know,” Shallan said, wiping her tears again as her father continued to sing. “Pattern … she was at my wedding.”

Forehead against the rock, he prayed silently to Talmut. The one who had chosen to remain in Damnation so that his brothers and sisters—and all humankind—might escape it. The story was so dramatic, so inspiring, that Szeth wondered why it wasn’t emphasized more in their teachings.

All his life … from childhood and that first awful day when he’d killed … he’d been listening not to a god or a spren. But to one of the Unmade.

Kaladin’s music began once more. A flute, reminding Szeth of the days when his dances had not left corpses. He found himself able to breathe.