Wind and Truth (The Stormlight Archive, #5)

by Brandon Sanderson

“Most of you once served him,” Tanavast said. “He granted you his powers. There is a Connection we can exploit, so long as the circle contains enough of you. Strongest would be sixteen or my own number of ten—it cannot be nine. If you speak oaths to me, my power can be channeled and governed by rules to prevent a cataclysm. I will take back your Surges, then grant them anew, and together you will become a force that both protects Roshar and binds the enemy away from it.”

Ishar mouthed words of Intent, then touched Honor and drew out a powerful cord of light. “This will start the bond,” Ishar said. “Only once it is complete can Vedel seal immortality upon us—using our Connection to Honor to tap into constantly rejuvenating Investiture from the Spiritual Realm, locking our souls at our current age. This way we can be reborn again and again.” Ishar touched his line to Jezrien first. “I swear this oath to you, Honor,” the king said. “I will hold back the darkness. I will protect this land.”

“We eight who have sworn,” Jezrien said, “all remember the old world. But there is one more here who knew the gods. Midius? It is time.” God himself turned to Navani. “I would have you, old friend. I think you’re the only one among us all who showed an ounce of wisdom on that day.”

“How did he interact with the gods?” “Have you forgotten so easily?” Ishar asked. “I have had a lot on my mind,” Dalinar said. “Jog my memory.” “His soul is warped,” Jezrien said, “from his attempt to kill Cultivation.”

“Talenel,” Nale said, “this is Honor.” Taln frowned. He did not bow or show reverence, and instead looked the god straight in the eyes. “I’ve waited a long time for this moment. And here I am. Without my weapon.” “This one?” Honor asked. “You know what he did.” “You wanted someone who’s had interaction with the gods,” Nale said. “Plus, I want contrary opinions in the group. For balance.” Taln was still staring eye to eye with Honor. “You destroyed an entire world. My grandmother’s world.”

“Swear to Honor,” Tanavast said, “that you will protect this land. And hold back the darkness.” “I will protect the people of this land,” Taln whispered. “I will hold back the darkness. Not for Honor. But I’ll do it.”

Be content to play with your toys on their world of storms. Or do I have to broadcast what I have learned of your goals? I certainly do not think it a coincidence that you have made a special study of the worlds where legends abound of the dead being raised.

“The truth is, there’s a balance. You are a product of what life, society, and people have done to you. You bear blame for what you did, but others bear a lot of it too. It’s never too late to accept that your past might not be an excuse, but it is a valid explanation.

Mother spun and walked back toward camp. She didn’t say goodbye. Neturo whispered to Elid, asking if she wanted to stay with Mother—telling her it was a valid decision. She shook her head with tears in her eyes, so he turned her away from the sight. Together, the three of them started after the caravan. Szeth hung his head. Though he knew deep down that they hadn’t been a family for years now, it still hurt. Because this break, last of all, seemed final.

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.”

Deti put a hand to his face, blood and rain mixing, then gasped. “It comes!” Deti shouted. “The Night of Sorrows! I stand on the precipice of dawn and watch it advance, consuming all light, all life, all hope! IT COMES!”

“How does our dying trap the Fused?” Dalinar said. “Braize,” he said. “The planet. It draws souls to it naturally. Honor fashioned it into a prison, but a prison needs a lock.” “And … we are that lock?” Dalinar asked. “Our oath is that lock. Because Odium first Connected to us when he gave us powers on Ashyn, Honor could use that bond against him. That, along with the promise we made, becomes the force that holds the Fused.” Jezrien’s eyes seemed distant. “It is … what the gods do. We form a binding through our willpower, holding the others we are Connected to—our replacements in a way—to Braize. Impossible, save for the strange nature of that planet lending our ten oaths a multiplicative strength.” “But unless all ten of us return, they can be reborn.” “Yes,” Jezrien said. “Normally. All ten …”

“We’re broken,” Ishar whispered. “We need you to change the bond. Take it from us.” “Break the Oathpact?” Honor asked. “Change it, so that others can take our place,” Ishar said. “Or … or maybe make it allow half of us to hold the bond for one Isolation, then trade with the other half …” “Five?” Honor said. “No, impossible. Five is a number of weakness. No symmetry, no power. Perhaps four would work. The number of Adonalsium’s four aspects. Or ten, sixteen … one.” Dalinar felt cold. “One?” “One cosmere,” Honor said. “One Truth. One Adonalsium. A number of power and strength.” “One …” Ishar whispered. “One could remain?” “It would be a cracking of the Oathpact,” Honor said. “You would need to acknowledge that and decide. To give of your Honor, in small measure. There must yet be ten to hold the core, but one … one could stand at the forefront. Like a soldier in the lead of a formation.” “But—” Dalinar started. “Regardless,” Honor said, “I will no longer be aiding you as you go forward, Heralds. My part in this conflict is done.”

“Aunt Dova is here. Should we talk to her?” “Wait,” Dalinar said. “Aunt Dova? You know her?” He nodded. “She visited Mother. Sometimes.” A Herald had been visiting Aesudan?

Unite them. Dalinar still occasionally heard echoes of that command vibrating through him. He thought that hadn’t come from the Stormfather or Honor, but from a god that once had existed, and might yet, if not in a form people recognized. He had no evidence other than his own feelings. But he had written—he hoped convincingly—of those experiences in his book.

“Sometimes there is no path forward,” Dalinar said, “so you have to break one open.” Like you did with Elhokar? Pounding him into submission? You never knew he was seeing Cryptics because instead of asking why he was afraid, you burst in and attacked him! “I showed him I wasn’t a threat!” Dalinar said. By beating him near senseless, the Stormfather said. I should never have picked you, Dalinar. You are born of war, and trail blood like a shadow. The sole thing you know how to do is break. If you are told no, you just punch harder—because life has taught you that’s how to get what you want. But sometimes, deny it though you may, the world doesn’t need what you want. Dalinar let his fingers trail from the line of light. There was … there was too much truth in the Stormfather’s words. “What are you?” Dalinar asked, narrowing his eyes at the shimmer. “What are you really?” What I’ve always been, the Stormfather said. Perhaps if you hadn’t treated me like you did Elhokar and every other person in your life, we’d have made it further, Dalinar. I suppose the fault is mine. I knew what you were. This is the end. You will die in this realm—a worse death than your brother, and a worse one than you deserve. Goodbye.

“And what growth can come from peace?” he asked, quivering with the weight of so many emotions. “Admit it, Cultivation. You let the war proceed for millennia and did not intercede, because conflict doesn’t just inflame emotion, it forces growth. Your power’s Intent.” Her avatar stared at him boldly, but he felt the tremble in her power. Yes. It did like war, didn’t it? She hated suffering, but she was the Vessel. Her power loved anything that encouraged people to learn, better themselves, and achieve. That was often accelerated by conflict.

“I die!” Leyten shouted, spasming. “The Scholar with a Spear! I die by the hands of a friend! My spren screams in death, and I know that I have failed to lead! I am no captain! I am nothing! Vyre strikes me, and my eyes burn!”

“I climb!” Tuko shouted, ragged. “I climb the wall of grief toward the light, locked away above! I climb, the weight of my darkened twin on my back, and seek the captive! The light I love! I … Storms … the light I love!”

Renarin, Glys said eventually. Shallan has arrived, and is responding oddly. Shallan? he thought. What do you mean? I brought her out of her vision, Glys said, because you indicated you wanted to gather us again. Your window is still standing, and she’s watching. Oh, blood of his fathers. Shallan was watching? What’s she doing? he asked. Hopping up and down, Glys said, making a high-pitched sound like she’s in pain.

In the end, it is my lies that do me in. Another lesson I fail to learn time and time again. I recognize this flaw. I hope it does not someday destroy me.

At the top, they found two bodies. Unarmored. Taln, the Herald, knelt here with his head back, speared with a dozen lances, which propped up his corpse—his hand still holding the crushed skull of a dead Fused. In death, he was covered in blood, his face tipped toward the sky and his mouth open as if in a shout. Leaning against him from behind, nestled among the bodies as if looking for a place to rest, was Ash, a bloodied and chipped sword in her lap. She was smiling. Bleeding from a good two dozen hits, she looked at Adolin, who knelt at the edge of the little crater at the top of the pile of corpses. “This time,” she whispered, “I won’t let him go alone.” She closed her eyes and fell still.

“Them?” Kaladin asked. “The other highspren. Particularly 121.” “Who?” Kaladin asked. “Nale’s spren,” Syl whispered. “He’s one of the worst.” “Your names are numbers?” Kaladin asked, frowning. “Like … Cryptics?” “What?” both she and the highspren said. “It’s nothing like that,” the highspren replied. “Theirs are formulas. Ours are numbers.” “That was honestly kind of racist,” Syl whispered to Kaladin.

“This ‘therapy’ is too easy,” the spren said. “All you do is sit and listen, then tell me things I already kind of know.” “Remarkable,” Kaladin said, “how little we do things like that though, isn’t it?”

“In that we are united,” said Melishi. “I know how to be certain we will have peace. All you have to do is open your heart, and trust. I will unite us all.” Those words struck Dalinar through like a spear. Standing with a singer lover at his side, he forced himself to watch as the honor of an entire people was broken in an instant. Melishi raised the gemstone to the unsuspecting spren, and … Hesitated. Mishram cocked her head. Dalinar’s breath caught. “Do it, Melishi,” Honor’s voice said, vibrating through the small hollow of stone. Melishi did. Dalinar wasn’t certain of the mechanics, though he’d done it once with the Thrill. Something about a deep Connection to the Unmade, which Melishi had forged with ideas of unity. Something about welcoming them in, then continuing to pull. In this case, Mishram’s desire to stop the war bound her to the Bondsmith, who wanted exactly the same thing—but was willing to do an unspeakable act to make it happen. The Bondsmith began to glow, and Mishram distorted and bent, screaming with a sudden raw panic. A hundred overlapping voices, and a tunnel of light. Dalinar sent himself away, out of the body of the Windrunner, to rejoin Navani. She took him in her arms, burying her face in his chest, trembling as they listened to the terrified shrieks of a spren betrayed. In that instant, something ripped within the world itself. Roshar’s rhythms and tones froze. Like a heart suddenly stopped. Three terrible seconds. Then it was back. When the ligh...

“You did this,” Garith said. “Why?” “It was necessary,” Honor said. “You are supposed to respect oaths!” Garith said, stopping right in front of Honor. “You embody them! How could you allow this? How?” Honor turned as if to leave. Garith reached for him, but as his fingers touched the god … A vision. Injected directly into Dalinar’s mind. Of Radiants burning Roshar, of the sky on fire, of people dying and withering to dust. Of Garith himself, glowing with power, leaving thousands—human and singer alike—dead. Navani gasped—and the Windrunners cried out in pain. Even Melishi and the Radiants who had come with him howled. They all saw it. Every Radiant on Roshar. What could be. A reminder that their powers could utterly lay waste to an entire world. It had happened before. “You,” Honor said, “are destruction incarnate. You are as Dawnshards. You will soon become Surges unbounded, as I cannot watch you any longer. The Radiants will end this planet.”

“I’ll make it right,” Renarin whispered. The Windrunner looked up, and seemed to see him. Somehow, across time, through the void that was Beyond, this man saw Renarin. He gasped. “I promise,” Renarin said. “I’ll find a way.” The man nodded, tears in his eyes, and Renarin finally hurried after the other two.

“You need help?” Lift said, clutching her chicken close. “’Cuz uh … I’m maybe a hero or somethin’.”

A lot of laws and rules were the same—retaining their positions by merit of momentum, not virtue.

“Timbre has seen a pool like this,” Venli said. “In the mountains. The Fused use it as a gateway to another realm. They always called it Cultivation’s pool. The greatest of the gods create them, and Timbre says she thinks … it gathers for the same reason Stormlight streams off a human.” “All three have one of these?” Thude asked, dipping his axe again. “Honor, Cultivation, and Odium?” “Honor’s pool moves around,” Venli said. “No one knows where Odium’s is. At least … no one did. The Fused talked about it, that Odium doesn’t trust anyone to know its location, after an event they wouldn’t speak of.” It had been hidden, at least until now. Until … Until, Timbre guessed, someone arrived who was bonded to both a spren of Odium and a spren of Honor. Venli. Had Odium somehow masked his pool using Honor? Or was it something else? What had the stones said … Pieces of the sky, fallen here. Watched over by strange people. Secrets even the gods didn’t understand.

“All but your husband’s bastard bear a terrible burden, including predispositions inherited from you. Nale says you were warned it would happen. Chana … killing the child now will be a mercy.” “You don’t understand,” Mother whispered. “She’ll come back, Dreder. Once I kill her, she’ll return to life. She’s taking my place.” “What nonsense is this?” “Shallan has powers,” Mother said, “but the Radiants are dead and gone. This means that I’ve found what I was searching for: an heir. The bond has passed from me to her. She is eternal now and I am mortal.”

Mother. The Herald. Dead. This day. This terrible day. The day the world had ended. And Shallan was to blame.

Should she blame herself? Could she? Could anyone actually blame the young girl trembling in her father’s arms? No. She had to blame her mother, because her mother was to blame. The hesitation was to Mother’s credit, and Mother’s insanity provided context. But context didn’t excuse actions, only helped give reasons for them.

By tradition, he entered right as she did, from his own meditation room. He wore a brand-new side sword, because of course he did. He’d later tell her it was a gift from Kaladin. He’d been given forty-seven different swords that day, including one from her, and had chosen to wear Kaladin’s.

“Dalinar?” Sadeas demanded. “What in Damnation are you—” Dalinar punched him across his helmeted face, an excellent right hook, carrying with it decades of frustration and strength. The fist blasted through the Plate helmet, shattering it, and cracked across Sadeas’s too-red, too-puffy, too-smug face. Sadeas dropped like a lead bar, crashing to the floor in a heap of Plate. That one … that one felt good.

I Invested this land, restoring godhood. There were echoes, of course, of my predecessor. Little bits of him left behind. Three powerful incarnations who had his voice, and many smaller ones representing aspects of nature and personality. Beyond these tiny spirits, Roshar had people. A curious variety who could hear the songs of the gods. Their orderiness sang to my soul, and to the power I now held. For a moment, I doubted. A part of me dared wonder. Did I understand what I’d done? Did I … regret? These questions echoed in the stewards that my predecessor had left. Shadows of divinity with instructions to protect, to shroud, to nurture. One sang to me in particular, and that invigorated me, though I did not know why the Wind was chosen to protect. Wind, invisible Wind, so flighty and immaterial. It did not … it did not condemn me. I sang with it. There were other worlds here. One held humans, and I ignored it for now. I was too intrigued by a third world, more distant from the sun. A cold, dark rock—it could support life, barely. It had a curious property: a core of a strange metal that attracted Investiture, calling to my soul. Fascinating.

While we’d created smaller things earlier, we now moved on to create true beings. With passions, thoughts, ideas of their own. Creations of light and wind and dreams. They evolved not through genetics, as physical beings did, but through perception. I loved them. We decided to form ten varieties. Ten because my power loved the symmetry. Ten, because Kor loved me, and knew this made me happy. We started with the first seven, then one variety was born of Kor alone. In counterpoint, and at her urging, I created one variety almost entirely on my own. My angels of Honor. They loved the wind, for reasons even I could not fully fathom.

War raged on this land. City-states, as had been common on our homeworld, were being conquered by a single nation. Rayse’s favored people had been imbued with power, far greater than the power of sculpting stone I had given the singers. This was a dreadful power, control over the very Surges that make up creation. It reminded me of the worst powers on our world. The ability to shear axon from axon. Microkinesis, in the language of gods. Here it took a different form, but caused me—even God—to tremble.

“Ah …” the deceitful one said. “So you’ve finally decided to come visit, Tanner.” “Tanavast.” “Always Tanner to me,” Rayse said, grinning and gesturing to his belt. A copy of the one that my mortal self had made for him so long ago.

Disgusted, I began to withdraw fully. But then something caught my eye: a group of people with darker skin than the others, like my own. A group who were already leaving the city. “What do we do, Uncle?” one of them asked, walking alongside an older man. “I don’t believe them for a moment. They’ll secure power, then crush the rest of us.” “We must make our own alliance, Nale,” the older man said. “It is the only way. They cannot break us all …” I considered. Their defiance, their pride, their honor in rejecting this obvious threat. It inspired me, and my power yearned to help them. I should have returned to Kor to discuss it. But I was a god now. Should I not already know what was right? What need was there to discuss? Later that night, I appeared to these men in their tent. There, I made them an offer. “I will give you,” I declared, “the power to resist our shared enemy, should you desire it.”

Jezrien held out his hands to gesture for peace. Nale’s uncle, Makibak, didn’t rise to confront his enemy. He bowed his head and spoke softly. “You come to finish us off?” “No, Makibak, I come to offer the hand of friendship,” Jezrien said. “We’re gathering those who have survived, and we’re taking them to safety.” “I hope,” Makibak said, “that you lead them off a cliff, you bastard.” Jezrien knelt. “Zoral, he who was named the Voidbringer, is dead,”

This guy, Syl said in Kaladin’s head. Have we ever fought someone so annoying? “Amaram,” Kaladin whispered. Oh yeah. He was an absolute tool, wasn’t he? And that’s coming from a girl who is currently a spear.

“Tanavast,” she hissed, “Rayse didn’t kill only Uli Da.” “Who else?” “Aona.” The healer? Of all people, he’d attacked Aona? “Both she and Skai are dead, Tanavast,” Kor whispered. “He drew them into conflict with one another, then finished them off when they were weak.” Aona had always treated me with such kindness. I felt my essence grow thinner, spread out, my soul vibrating with anguish. Then I snapped back.

I looked to the place where Ambition had died—out in space, distant. Their clash had been so destructive, the entire region—including multiple planets—had been annihilated. Other planets lay broken, barely habitable. A clash of gods could be a terrible, terrible thing. In that moment, I learned something incredible. I knew why Adonalsium, at the end, had not fought us.

“What limits do you propose?” Rayse asked. She held out her hand, and equations appeared above it, manifest in notations we could instantly understand. Only a portion of our powers could be granted to mortals—within distinct controls. There was versatility, I saw, and genius in how it was presented. One could grant great powers to individuals, if they were willing to bend to divine rules as we did. Or instead, lesser power could be given indiscriminately to many. “Brilliant,” I whispered to her. “With these restrictions, no mortal would ever be powerful enough to destroy the planet.” Unless … No. That was ridiculous to consider.

“There are holes in that covenant. I know you have seen them.” I had. If one of us were to die, then our followers would be able to draw power without being bound—as our will was what maintained the covenant. More, Rayse and I were not forbidden from clashing personally. If we did …

So, at her wish, I reached out to them. The powerful Shards who ruled the cosmere, each in their own place. We had agreed not to interact, but all of us saw how silly that promise—made as mortals—was in the face of divinity. Our powers, though concentrated on planets and systems, swept through the entire cosmere. We could sense each other. All except a few—like Euridrius, holder of Reason—who had vanished. Or like Ambition, who had been destroyed. I reached out to the others for help. The strong ones, the ones smarter than I. The heroes. Leras, known as Preservation, who had always had such a strong nature. Ati, perhaps kindliest among us, who had boldly taken up Ruin. Edgli, Endowment, who was the most compassionate woman I had ever known. Bavadin, shrewd and capable. Chan Ko Sar, Invention, who traveled the cosmere creating great marvels. I sought them each in turn. Each rejected me. They were afraid of Odium—but he was bound on Roshar. A dangerous animal, now caged. They feared that any intervention would lead to his escape, and were willing to sacrifice Roshar to keep him contained. I was not. I made one final attempt at locating Valor, the great dragon god Medelantorius—as she was a warrior who would surely join me. Medelantorius was not to be found, unfortunately. Had Odium killed her, as he had poor Aona? Valor would not have died easily. I would doubtless have felt those waves of death ripple through the cosmere.

met the struggling humans in one of their tents, speaking with Ishar and others who had been allowed to Surgebind on Ashyn. They still carried the seeds of that ability within them, and their Connection to Odium was a pathway to binding a god—for we could not give of ourselves without exposing ourselves. I told these humans I could bestow their Surges again, if they were willing to obey and accept the rules I placed on them. They had already been thinking of ways to regain their powers, and Ishar had a plan. A good one, involving the distant world that could collect souls. And thus we had an agreement. They swore to me, and I gave them the largest portion of myself that I would ever grant. Giving birth to Heralds.

Moash landed again, fabrial in one hand, light-bending knife in the other. “This will hurt me,” he said. “It is the pain of building a new empire.” He raised the knife, ready to plunge it down. Leyten’s final words rang in Sigzil’s ears: the prophecy that Vienta and Sigzil would fall by Moash’s hand. But the future was never set. And so, Sigzil did the only thing he could think of to save Vienta. “I renounce my oaths!” he shouted. And he meant it. Something ripped inside him, but he screamed it again, meaning every word as fervently as he could. “I renounce them!” Sigzil screamed against the terrible pain. “I am no Radiant!” Vienta shrieked in agony, but vanished as the knife hit the stone. Sigzil’s soul suddenly echoed. For it was empty as a grand imperial hallway.

It is often said that the best teacher is failure. This is true. But it is also the best killer. May you be lucky enough in failure to live, and unlucky enough in success to struggle.