Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive, #3)

by Brandon Sanderson

How was it that these men somehow naturally ended up surrounding themselves with others of their own rank? They married tenners, drank with tenners, joked with tenners. They had their own jargon and traditions. There was an entire world represented here that Kaladin had never seen, despite it residing right next door to him.

What a strange mix of emotions. On one hand, he wanted to tell them about Amaram and rant about the injustices done—repeatedly—to those he loved. At the same time … they were mocking Adolin Kholin, who had a shot at the title of best swordsman in all of Alethkar. Yes, his suit was a little bright—but if they would merely spend five minutes talking to him, they’d see he wasn’t so bad.

“Dalinar thinks God isn’t dead,” she said. “Just that the Almighty—Honor—was never actually God.” “You’re part of Honor. Doesn’t that offend you?” “Every child eventually realizes that her father isn’t actually God.” She looked at him. “Do you think anybody is watching? Do you really think there isn’t anything out there?” Strange question to answer, to a little bit of a divinity.

He took a deep breath, then looked toward the clouds. He had been delivered up to the sky, and had found magnificence there. He’d been given the power to protect and defend.

Could Shallan’s lies help her be something more than a broken girl from rural Jah Keved? A girl who was, deep down, terrified that she had no idea what she was doing.

“There are spren,” Shallan said to the gathered crowd, using Lightweaving to twist and warp her voice, “and there are spren. You followed the dark ones. They whisper for you to abandon yourselves. They lie.” The cultists gasped. “We do not want your devotion. When have spren ever demanded your devotion? Stop dancing in the streets and be men and women again. Strip off those idiotic costumes and return to your families!”

“We have to stay to the outer ring,” he said. “No going inward for us, nope. Be happy. You get … you get to enjoy the end of the world in style.…”

Kaladin! Syl’s voice, in his head. I sense something … something about its power. Cut upward, toward the heart. The city, the battle, the sky—all became a blur. Kaladin forced his Blade farther into the creature’s chest, pushing it upward, seeking … The Shardknife struck something brittle and hard.

“There’s a device in Kholinar,” he said, “of ancient design. It can instantly transport large groups of people across great distances.” He turned toward Azure and the others. “The Kholin armies wait to join us here. All we need to do is activate the device—something that only a select few people can do.”

Failure is the mark of a life well lived. In turn, the only way to live without failure is to be of no use to anyone. Trust me, I’ve practiced.”

She sniffled, looking away. “I have to become Veil to escape the memories, but I don’t have the experience that she pretends to have. I haven’t lived her life.”

He glanced at Shallan. “Was she stupid or bold?” “How should I know?” “Wrong answer. She was both.” “It wasn’t stupid. If nobody asked questions, then we would never learn anything.” “What of the wisdom of her elders?” “They offered no explanation for why she shouldn’t ask about the wall! No rationalization, no justification. There’s a difference between listening to your elders and just being as frightened as everyone else.” Wit smiled, the sphere in his hand lighting his face. “Funny, isn’t it, how so many of our stories start the same way, but have opposing endings? In half, the child ignores her parents, wanders out into the woods, and gets eaten. In the other half she discovers great wonders. There aren’t many stories about the kids who say, ‘Yes, I shall not go into the forest. I’m glad my parents explained that is where the monsters live.’ ”

“Fortunately, I am an artist, and not a teacher.” “People learn things from art.” “Blasphemy! Art is not art if it has a function.” Shallan rolled her eyes. “Take this fork,” Wit said. He waved his hand. Some of her Stormlight split off from her, spinning above his hand and making an image of a floating fork in the darkness. “It has a use. Eating. Now, if it were to be ornamented by a master artisan, would that change its function?” The fork grew intricate embossing in the form of growing leaves. “No, of course not. It has the same use, ornamented or not. The art is the part that serves no purpose.” “It makes me happy, Wit. That’s a purpose.” He grinned, and the fork disappeared.

“Weren’t we in the middle of a story about a girl climbing a wall?” Shallan asked. “Yes, but that part takes forever,” he said. “I’m finding things to occupy us.” “We could just skip the boring part.” “Skip?” Wit said, aghast. “Skip part of a story?”

“You wound me,” Wit said. “What happens next?” “The girl finds steps,” Shallan said. “And the girl realizes that the wall wasn’t to keep something in, but to keep her and her people out.” “Because?” “Because we’re monsters.” Wit stepped over to Shallan, then quietly folded his arms around her. She trembled, then twisted, burying her face in his shirt. “You’re not a monster, Shallan,” Wit whispered. “Oh, child. The world is monstrous at times, and there are those who would have you believe that you are terrible by association.” “I am.” “No. For you see, it flows the other direction. You are not worse for your association with the world, but it is better for its association with you.”

“It’s not important. We found the moral already. The wall kept people out.” “Why?” “Because…” What had she told Pattern before, when she’d been showing him this story? “Because,” Wit said, pointing, “beyond the wall was God’s Light.”

“She climbed down the steps,” Shallan whispered, watching the girl run down the steps, scarves streaming behind her. “She hid among the creatures who lived on this side. She sneaked up to the Light and she brought it back with her. To the other side. To the … to the land of shadows…”

“The people suffered,” Wit said, “but each storm brought light renewed, for it could never be put back, now that it had been taken. And people, for all their hardship, would never choose to go back. Not now that they could see.”

“Do you wish,” Wit asked, “that you could go back to not being able to see?” “No,” she whispered. “Then live. And let your failures be part of you.”

Forgiveness. For herself. She gasped, pulling her finger back as if it had been bitten. “It’s terrible,” Wit said, stepping up beside her, “to have been hurt. It’s unfair, and awful, and horrid. But Shallan … it’s okay to live on.” She shook her head. “Your other minds take over,” he whispered, “because they look so much more appealing.

You’ll never control them until you’re confident in returning to the one who birthed them. Until you accept being you.”

“Then I’ll never control it.” She blinked tears. “No,” Wit said. He nodded toward the version of her still standing up. “You will, Shallan. If you do not trust yourself, can you trust me? For in you, I see a woman more wonderful than any of the lies. I pro...

She nodded toward the illusion of herself still standing. “I can’t be her. She’s just another fabrication.” Both illusions vanished. “I see only one woman here,” Wit said. “And it’s the one who is standing up. Shallan, that has always been you. You just have t...

“Wit?” she asked. “I … I can’t do it.” He smiled. “There are certain things I know, Shallan. This is one of them. You can. Find the balance. Accept the pain, but don’t accept that you deserved it.”

He took a deep breath. “I guess … I guess you used to be alive. The others say they can hear your screaming if they touch you. That you’re dead, yet somehow still in pain. I’m sorry. I can’t do anything about that, but … thank you. Thank you for assisting me all these years. And if it helps, I’m going to use you to do something good today. I’ll try to always use you that way.”

Dalinar stood in the breeze, wishing he could empty his mind, rid himself of memories. Go back to being able to pretend he was a good man. Problem was, he’d given in to a kind of fancy, one everyone told about him. They said the Blackthorn had been a terror on the battlefield, but still honest. Dalinar Kholin, he would fight you fair, they said.

Evi’s cries, and the tears of murdered children, spoke the truth. Oh … oh, Almighty above. How could he live with this pain? So fresh, restored anew? But why pray? There was no Almighty watching. If there had been—and if he’d had a shred of justice to him—Honor would have long ago purged this world of the fraud that was Dalinar Kholin.

“Have you ever come to the sudden realization,” Dalinar said softly, “that you’re not the man everyone thinks you are?” “Yes,” Taravangian whispered. “More daunting, however, are similar moments: when I realize I’m not the man I think of myself as being.”

“She corrupted them,” Kaladin’s spren whispered. Shallan took a break, wiping her brow with a handkerchief from her satchel. They were distant enough that the lights of souls in Kholinar were just a general haze of light. “What was that, spren?” Azure asked. “Corrupted?” “That’s why we’re here. The Oathgate—do you remember those two spren in the sky? Those two are the gateway’s soul, but the red coloring … They must be His now. That’s why we ended up here, instead of going to Urithiru.” Sja-anat, Shallan thought, said she was supposed to kill us. But that she’d try not to. Shallan wiped her brow again, then got back to work.

Or maybe they feared him because of the black sword in a silver sheath that he wore strapped to his back. Oh, it’s the lake! the sword said in his mind. It had an eager voice that didn’t sound distinctly feminine or masculine. You should draw me, Szeth! I would love to see the lake. Vasher says there are magic fish here. Isn’t that interesting?

He never told Tukks the truth. When Kal had frozen on the practice field, it hadn’t been out of fear. He’d been very sure he could hurt someone. In fact, he’d realized that he could kill, if needed. And that was what had terrified him.

That was cruel, the sword said. Leaving him to drown. “Better than feeding him to a greatshell,” Szeth said. “That happens to criminals in this kingdom.” Both are cruel, the sword said. “You know of cruelty, sword-nimi?” Vivenna used to tell me that cruelty is only for men, as is mercy. Only we can choose one or the other, and beasts cannot.

The world is the same as it’s always been, Adolin thought. These things we’re finding—monsters and Radiants—aren’t new. They were only hidden. The world has always been like this, even if I didn’t know it. And Adolin … he was still himself. He had all the same things to be proud of, didn’t he? Same strengths? Same accomplishments? Same flaws too.

“Do we have any other options?” Kaladin said. “I remember … some,” Syl said. “Much more than I used to. Our land, every land, is three realms. The highest is the Spiritual, where gods live—there, all things, times, and spaces are made into one. “We’re now in the Cognitive Realm. Shadesmar, where spren live. You are from the Physical Realm. The only way I know of to transfer there is to be pulled by human emotions. That won’t help you, as you’re not spren.”

Dalinar licked his lips. “What did she tell you?” he said, voice ragged. “What did your mother say about me?”

“The only honest officer in the army,” Renarin said, “the honorable soldier. Noble, like the Heralds themselves. Our father. The greatest man in Alethkar.” What stupid words. Yet Dalinar found himself weeping. Renarin let go, but Dalinar grabbed him, pulling him close.

“Your Excellency,” she said, upon rising. “What would you say is the Azish people’s greatest strength?” He glanced at his advisors as her words were translated, but they gave him no answer. Rather, they seemed curious to know what he’d say. “Our laws,” he finally replied. “Your famed bureaucracy,” Navani said. “Your clerks and scribes—and by extension, the great information centers of Tashikk, the timekeepers and stormwardens of Yezier, the Azish legions. You are the greatest organizers on Roshar. I’ve long envied your orderly approach to the world.” “Perhaps this is why your essay was so well received, Brightness Kholin,” the emperor said, sounding completely sincere.

“We need codes to guide our interactions—as proven by today. We must have procedures on how we hold meetings, how to give each person a turn. How we share information.” “I don’t know if Thaylenah can agree to even that.” “Well, surely you’d want to see what the codes contained first, Queen Fen,” Navani said, strolling toward her. “After all, we are going to need to administrate trade through the Oathgates. I wonder, who has excellent expertise in shipping, caravans, and trade in general…?” “You’d give that to us?” Fen asked, completely taken aback. “It seems logical.”

“And the Alethi?” the petite Yezier princess asked. “What of you?” “Well, we do excel at one thing,” Navani said. She looked to Emul. “Would you accept help from our generals and armies to help you secure what is left of your kingdom?” “By every Kadasix that has ever been holy!” Emul said. “Yes, of course! Please.” “I have several scribes who are experts in fortification,” Aladar suggested from his seat behind Dalinar and Jasnah. “They could survey your remaining territory and give you advice on securing it.”

They didn’t carry weapons other than knives, but the ship had wicked harpoons clipped in racks at the sides of the deck. Seeing those made Kaladin infinitely more comfortable; he knew exactly where to go for a weapon. Syl stood near the bow, watching out over the sea of beads again. He almost missed spotting her at first because her dress was red, instead of its normal white-blue. Her hair had changed to black, and … and her skin was flesh colored—tan, like Kaladin’s. What on Roshar?

“About wasting Stormlight?” Kaladin said. “Yes, perhaps I should. She does seem inclined to be frivolous with who she expends it for.” Syl rolled her eyes. “What?” “Don’t go lecture her, silly. Chat with her. About life. About fun things.” Syl nudged him with her foot. “I know you want to. I can feel that you do. Be glad I’m the wrong kind of spren, or I would probably be licking your forehead or something to get at your emotions.”

“Shallan is betrothed to Adolin,” Kaladin said. “Which isn’t an oath,” Syl said. “It’s a promise to maybe make an oath sometime.” “It’s still not the sort of thing you play around with.” Syl rested her hand on his knee. “Kaladin. I’m your spren. It’s my duty to make sure that you’re not alone.” “Is that so? Who decided?” “I did. And don’t give me excuses about not being lonely, or about ‘only needing your brothers in arms.’ You can’t lie to me. You feel dark, sad. You need something, someone, and she makes you feel better.” Storms. It felt like Syl and his emotions were double-teaming him. One smiled with encouragement, while the other whispered terrible things. That he’d always be alone. That Tarah had been right to leave him.

“It was the Kaladin equivalent. That scowl was almost jovial.” She smiled at him. Something felt warm within him at being near her. Something felt right. It wasn’t like with Laral, his boyhood crush. Or even like with Tarah, his first real romance. It was something different, and he couldn’t define it. He only knew he didn’t want it to stop. It pushed back the darkness.

Dalinar remembered almost everything now. Though he still hadn’t recovered the details of his meeting with the Nightwatcher, the rest was as fresh as a new wound, dripping blood down his face.

There had been so many more holes in his mind than he’d realized. The Nightwatcher had ripped apart his memories like the fabric of an old blanket, then sewn a new quilt out of it. In the intervening years he’d thought himself mostly

whole, but now all those scars had been ripped free and he c...

“You know how they make fabrials, don’t you?” Taravangian asked. “Enslaved spren?” “Spren can’t be ‘enslaved’ any more than a chull can.” The Stormfather rumbled distantly in his mind. “That gemstone,” Taravangian said, “imprisons the kind of spren that gives things substance, the kind that holds the world together. We have entrapped in that shield something that, at another time, might have blessed a Knight Radiant.”

Each had survived when his entire platoon had fallen. Heroes, but not the conventional type. It took being a soldier to understand the heroism of simply being willing to continue after all your friends had died.

It seemed that Dalinar had been four people in his life. The bloodlusty warrior, who killed wherever he was pointed, and the consequences could go to Damnation. The general, who had feigned distinguished civility—when secretly, he’d longed to get back on the battlefield so he could shed more blood. Third, the broken man. The one who paid for the actions of the youth. Then finally, the fourth man: most false of them all. The man who had given up his memories so he could pretend to be something better.

“I should have known this disguise wouldn’t work,” she added. “I’m obviously too beautiful and interesting to hide.”