Wind and Truth (The Stormlight Archive, #5)

by Brandon Sanderson

“I wish I had fatherly advice for you,” Lirin said, “but you’ve far outpaced my understanding of life. So I guess, go and be yourself. Protect. I … I love you.”

The Wind told me, before she vanished, that it was the change in Odium’s vessel that restored her voice. I wonder. Perhaps it is the new storm, making people begin to reconsider that the wind is not their enemy.

“Mmmm. Humans are … squishy. Not just bodies. Minds too. Memories too. Ideas too. Mmmm…” He sounded pleased by that.

“Wit, I’m worried. Am I ready?” “I ask myself that same question now and then,” he said. “And Shallan, I’m ten thousand years old.”

“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?”

“The Spiritual Realm is stranger by orders of magnitude. It is a place where the future blends with the present, where the past echoes like the striking of a clock. Time and distance stretch, like numbers infinitely repeating. It is where the gods live, and it baffles even some of them.”

“It is because…” Maya said, “… humans have no Honor. The god, I mean. I heard … I heard that Mishram had been captured. I heard that … that Radiants would destroy the world. That was why I decided. Decided I was done.” She shook her head. “I don’t know it all. I’d like to. Considering what breaking … breaking the bond did to me.”

“He does it just to make me feel bad,” Gaz said. “He acts like a hero,” Red said, amused, “because it annoys you. Really.” “Yup,” Gaz said. “Everyone should be grateful to me. If I hadn’t shown those bridgemen tough love, they would never have grown up to be such nauseating paragons of self-righteousness.” “Weren’t you crying the other month,” Red said, “because of what you did to them?” “I was drunk,” Gaz said. “You can’t trust a man when he’s drunk. He’ll accidentally say things he ain’t ready to say yet. Anyway, weren’t we going to try out that armor?”

Hearing her voice, even only in the back of Shallan’s mind, was comforting. It had seemed, right when she’d reintegrated, that Veil would be gone completely, but what good would healing be if it meant losing part of herself—a part she loved—forever? More and more, she was feeling that reintegration wasn’t about rejecting Veil or Radiant, but embracing them and acknowledging in a healthy way that different parts of her had different needs, different goals, different ideas.

“Tanavast—the Vessel that once held Honor—is dead, but the power remains. Somewhere. It’s a conundrum that few scholars even know to ponder upon. None know what became of Honor’s power. Have you any guesses?”

“It is the power and substance of the visions you were shown, starting years ago. It seeks for men to see their heritage, as it searches for a new Vessel to hold it.”

that is incredible. Like the work of a master sculptor, the map had fine topographical detail. It could be zoomed in until you could see cities, and zoomed out until it seemed as if you were gazing down from the moons upon a tiny continent surrounded by blue waters.

“Master Thaidakar will see eventually,” Iyatil said. “He is smarter than you give him credit for. He works to protect his homeland above all else, but once we find Mishram for my purposes, he will see. Master Thaidakar can only protect his land if the Shards can be controlled.

As I fear not the child with a weapon he cannot lift, I will never fear the mind of a man who does not think.

“You are normal,” Drehy said. “Or rather, nobody is normal. Normal doesn’t exist. So if we slavishly try to dress ourselves to imitate it, all we’re really doing is becoming a different kind of abnormal—a miserable kind.”

“So what do we do?” Rlain asked, joining Renarin at what seemed the first of the windows. “I don’t know,” Renarin said. “But remember. Remember it can be lies.” “Why pay attention if it could all be lies?” “Because truth is just the lie that happened,” Renarin said.

That looks like my room. See, those are my models on that shelf.” “Models?” “Wooden carvings of creatures,” Renarin explained. “You paint them to be lifelike.” He blushed. “I mostly bought knights instead of animals.

omg renarin plays warhammer

Why would there be a window depicting the storm? It had already arrived. Rlain hummed to Confusion. And Renarin, strangely, did as well? Or he tried. He glanced at Rlain and tried to imitate his humming. Renarin’s attempt was off-rhythm and too loud, like a child sounding out a word that was too big for them. But … Rlain had never heard a human even try before.

Mishram. Yes, Rlain did know that name. She had ruled the singers long ago—a spren who had wanted to perpetuate the fighting after the Fused left. The one who had been determined to exterminate humankind, escalating the war. She was the reason Rlain’s people had abandoned their forms and left. She was the queen of the gods they had forsaken.

“Her spren accepted me,” Rlain said, “when none of the honorspren would.” “That’s unfair,” Breteh’s honorspren said, glowing blue with hands on her hips. “Lots of humans weren’t chosen either, Rlain. It comes down to individual decisions.” “And yet,” Rlain said, “every single member of Bridge Four now has an honorspren—except me. Curious, how people’s decisions are an individual matter when they’re confronted about them—but those decisions form blatant patterns.”

“I 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.

“Every time I’ve done this,” Wit said, “I’ve been at one of the pools. Wells of power that grow around the presence of gods, a kind of … natural spring, grown of their power. When you step into such a well, you can feel the bond that gods have to the Spiritual Realm. You can see a little into the plane where they exist—where their thoughts move at many times the speed of mortals’. I can feel that place calling me. Perhaps it knows I rejected it once; I am the fish that escaped the hook.

He could make out the souls of Aunt Navani and his father, glowing brightly from their Connections to powerful spren—and another soul, which had to be Wit, shimmering with a great number of odd colors. Glys confirmed it.

Unfortunately, the friction just made her flip upward instead. She flew through the too-bright air straight toward the rift— —until someone seized her by the arm and held her, a figure that cast a shadow in the wrong direction. A man all in black, grunting, struggling against the powerful rift until finally the perpendicularity vanished.

“Kaladin,” he replied. “Sometimes called Stormblessed.” “Stormblessed. I do not remember blessing you.”

Kaladin packed up dinner and banked the fire, absorbed in his thoughts. They tried to turn dark, but he kept battering them back with positive thoughts, like soldiers fighting on his behalf. Reminders that he had succeeded in the past, and could succeed again. Reminders that an idea wasn’t true just because it entered his head.

El bowed. “I will not fail, lest I be destroyed.” “El, I do not throw people away for failure, unless it came about by their negligence. Adopt this policy. Even in failure, it is often not the tool, but the wielder, who is at fault.”

“It does not have to be one god,” she said. “One solution will never work for all. That was part of why we had to do what we did, ten thousand years ago. Let them be, Odium.”

He instead was most curious about the fact that two of the Shards appeared to be missing, completely vanished from interacting with the others. Hidden. One he understood with some effort. But Valor—where had Valor gone, and how did she hide from even his eyes?

“There is a chance, a solid one,” she said, “that you will do what is right. I would not have taken this step otherwise.” “You are correct,” he agreed. “I will do what is right.” “Do not be so smug,” she replied. “A part of you knows this path you’ve started on is a terrible one. Listen to that part of you. Give it a chance.”

“Origin of Songs,” Navani said softly. “My mind is translating the words, but I can pick up some of the grammar if I try. I think that’s referencing a person.” “Adonalsium,” Dalinar guessed, using a name Wit had told him. “Adonalsium,” the femalen singer agreed, still working. “Will come back for us. Until then, we have the Wind, the Stone, the spren. The life of trees and light of day. That is what we should worship.”

“Honor’s power will hate us,” Rlain’s spren said. “We are its enemies,” Glys agreed. “It does not fully think, but it will know. To kill us.” “Odium will destroy us.” “We are traitors to his vision.” “Cultivation will destroy us.” “We are abominations,” Glys said. “She will hate us. All will hate us. We cannot be seen.”

Yes, that’s what destroyed Ashyn, Navani thought, remembering the first piece of Dawnchant they’d translated. Dangerous powers, of spren and Surges. They destroyed their lands and have come to us begging. We took them in, as commanded by the gods …

“Go with them,” he whispered. “Serve those who bear you as you have me. Protect them.” He gestured to the armorers, who—looking amused—carted it off. Well, anyone who had served with him long enough knew his ways. He talked to his horse too. And anyone who thought that was strange could stuff a chull up their backside; Gallant understood the conversation, and enjoyed it.

Having one or two personas you default to, Shallan thought, is almost as much of a tell as acting like yourself. She’d likely made that same mistake in the past.

“How long,” Shallan said softly, “have you secretly been afraid of me?” Oddly, he smiled. “Since I discovered that you had killed Tyn. Why would I recruit someone I wasn’t at least in part frightened of? Why hunt something that can’t fight back?”

“A fallen god,” Dalinar said. “There are gods other than Honor, Cultivation, and Odium? Here on Roshar?” “There are pieces of the god who made the planet,” the Stormfather said. “No longer relevant, as humans—poorly adapted to this land—began to fear the storm above all else. And so it took on life … became an Adversary. A new demigod for Roshar.”

“You will die in here!” the spren thundered. “You will wander for eons, then wither away!” “Storm you, then help me! Don’t hide your secrets away!” “No,” the Stormfather said. “You wish to see what this place can show you? Fine. This is your stew. You can simmer in it.

“Well, if nothing else,” the wounded man said, “maybe I have a future on a bridge crew!” Adolin laughed, though he wondered if the members of Bridge Four—and to a lesser extent, Bridge Thirteen—knew quite how famous they were. Each member, including many who had died before joining Dalinar’s army, had taken on near-mythological status in the Alethi military.

I hope you’re well, Renarin, Adolin thought. Once, he could always count on Renarin being nearby—but now he was Radiant, and although he wasn’t a Windrunner, he was learning to fly. While Adolin just kept going as he always had. Same old Adolin.

“I returned to the Physical Realm,” she told him, “because I enjoy it here. I like the wind, the colors, the infinite blue sky and the warm close sun. I like the Radiant bond, because I like participating. I remind myself of that. I’m a person, and I chose.”

I wish not to engage to the reader their faults, rather to make it clear that an order so determined to care for the unwanted, the unguarded, and the disenfranchised would obviously have passionate disagreement in how to best attend to the needs of the lowly and disregarded.

“When you’re living an illusion, spren-nimi, be very careful not to do anything to spoil it. Because once you do, it is exceedingly difficult to recapture your audience.”

Silence. She held his eyes, and her jaw worked. But she couldn’t force it out. “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.”

“Why did you fight?” “Because the king of Alethkar was a rat, who got good men killed. And nobody would ever bring him to justice for his crimes.” “What you see,” Odium said, “is every wrong being righted. Every wrong. If you follow me, you can decide how that happens, and who is rewarded. Is that not better than fighting for nothing? Better than feeling nothing? When you contemplate your pain, contemplate the peace and unity that pain will earn for so many. Let it become a badge to you, Vyre.” A badge. A way to recover the man he’d once been, who had stood against even Kaladin to bring justice to the men who wore crowns and exploited the weak. That was who Moash had been.

They’d done something with his empty eye sockets, something that should have killed him. But as he lay there, wondering at the point of it, he … He saw. Not as he had. Outlines of light, the people specifically, and … gemstones, infused. Living things. No color, but … spren. He could see spren. All around.

The stones didn’t think about tomorrow. Let the wind worry about that. The stones could enjoy the past.

Being a listener means … the stones said to her … to listen to the stones … and your ancestors …

Venli stepped up next to her mother, who had always been so strong … until she wasn’t. That, Venli realized, was the way of life. No carapace was so thick it couldn’t crack.

“The stones,” Leshwi said softly. “Once, long ago, our ancestors worshipped the spren of the stones. By the time I was a young girl, my kind had turned to Odium, once spren and Honor abandoned us.” She hummed to another corrupted rhythm. “But it wasn’t ever that simple, was it? Some spren stood with humans, others stood apart, others still listened to us. It was a mess … It always has been.”