Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive, #3)

by Brandon Sanderson

A part of him scrunched up inside, huddling into a corner, tired of being whipped so often.

Adolin stepped in, carrying a large plate of food in one hand, some books under the other arm. He saw her and stumbled, nearly dropping it all.

“I knocked!” “The knock was feminine.” “It was … Shallan!” “Did you knock with one hand or two?” “I’m carrying a storming platter of food—for you, by the way. Of course the knock was one-handed. And seriously, who knocks with two?” “It was quite feminine, then. I’d have thought that imitating a woman to catch a glimpse of a young lady in her undergarments was beneath you, Adolin Kholin.”

Oh, for Damnation’s sake, Shallan. Can I come in now? And just so we’re clear, I’m a man and your betrothed, my name is Adolin Kholin, I was born under the sign of the nine, I have a birthmark on the back of my left thigh, and I had crab curry for breakfast. Anything else you need to know?” She poked her head out, pulling the cloth tight around her neck. “Back of your left thigh, eh? What’s a girl got to do to sneak a glimpse of that?” “Knock like a man, apparently.”

“Yes, yes. Take your time. I’m not standing out here holding a heavy platter of food, smelling it after having skipped dinner so I could dine with you.”

She’d traveled to the ancient city of the Knights Radiant, but compared to Adolin’s affection, all the sights of Urithiru were dun spheres. He liked her. And he brought her food.

“Your ego doesn’t count as a separate individual, Shallan.”

“I hate you,” she said, drinking his water next. Adolin chuckled.

“Damnation. I didn’t mean to say it like that. I’m sorry. I just … I keep worrying that I’m going to screw this up somehow.”

“Neither of us is going to mess this up,” she said to him, squeezing his hand. “Despite what might at times seem like our best efforts otherwise.” “Promise?” he asked. “I promise.

“Is it, um, girl stuff?” “Girl stuff,” she said flatly. “You know. When you … uh…”

“I washed my feet in that,” Adolin noted. “No you didn’t.” Shallan smacked her lips.

Adolin lounged nearby, arms folded, occasionally whispering a joke toward one of the men of Bridge Four.

“Highprince,” Dalinar finally said. “Highprince,” Amaram said back, tipping his head. “Bastard,” Adolin said.

Poor bridgeboy.

“Kid,” Teft said, “you’re the expert on what’s weird. We’ll trust your word.” Shallan looked with concern toward Renarin at the insult. He just grinned, as one of the other bridgemen slapped him on the back—Plate notwithstanding—while Lopen and Rock started arguing over who was truly the weirdest among them. In a moment of surprise, she realized that Bridge Four had actually assimilated Renarin. He might be the lighteyed son of a highprince, resplendent in Shardplate, but here he was just another bridgeman.

“Your imitation is pathetic,” Shallan whispered. “Here. Let me show you how it’s done.”

Adolin raised his faceplate and smiled at her. Storms, that smile.

“Bridgemen,” Adolin called. “You willing to give it another go?” “We’ll last longer than you will, gancho! Even with your fancy armor.” Adolin grinned and slammed his faceplate down.

“Renarin, can you guard my back?” Adolin asked. Renarin nodded.

Some of her selves cowered; others fought. For a moment Shallan lost herself, and she even let Veil appear among them. She was those women, those girls, every one of them. And none of them were her. They were things she used, manipulated. Illusions.

Listen to the words of a fool. —From Oathbringer, preface

YO, WHERE DID WIT GO????

Pattern clung to Shallan, and she to him, holding on for dear life.

She attacked like the frenzied child who had murdered her mother. The cornered woman who had stabbed Tyn through the chest. She drew upon the part of her that hated the way everyone assumed she was so nice, so sweet. The part of her that hated being described as diverting or clever. She drew upon the Stormlight within, and pushed herself farther into Re-Shephir’s essence.

“You can fight alongside us, Kal. It doesn’t have to be about humans against parshmen. It can be nobler than that. Oppressed against the oppressors.”

A hundred windspren spun in as lines of light, twisting around his arm, wrapping it like ribbons. They surged with Light, then exploded outward in a blinding sheet, sweeping to Kaladin’s sides and parting the winds around him.

At their head was Jasnah Kholin.

They’ll come with Light in their pockets, Grandfather had said. They’ll come to destroy, but you should watch for them anyway. Because they’ll come from the Origin. The sailors lost on an infinite sea. You keep that fire high at night, Puuli. You burn it bright until the day they come. They’ll arrive when the night is darkest. Surely that was now, with a new storm. Darkest nights. A tragedy. And a sign.

Jasnah was alive. Jasnah Kholin was alive.

“I have a suggestion, sir,” Sigzil continued. “Try to understand what people want out of life, and respect that, rather than projecting onto them what you think they should—” “Shut it, Sig.” “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Some days, it seemed you couldn’t break Kaladin Stormblessed with all the stones on Roshar. Then one of his men would get wounded, and you’d see him crack.

Renarin smiled immediately. All the youth ever wanted was to be treated like the rest of them.

“But I know Bridge Four. And you, Renarin Kholin, are Bridge Four.”

“You can be you without this being bad thing. You can admit you act and think differently from your brother, but can learn not to see this as flaw. It is just Renarin Kholin.”

Hobber jumped in surprise. His jaw dropped and he stared at the now-dun gemstone. Then he held up his hand, gawking at the luminescent smoke that rose from it. “Guys?” he called. “Guys, guys!” Lunamor stepped back as the bridgemen left their stations and came rushing over. “Give him your gemstones!” Kaladin called. “He’s going to need a lot! Pile them up!” Bridgemen scrambled to give Hobber their emeralds, and he drew in more and more Stormlight. Then the light suddenly dampened. “I can feel them again!” Hobber cried. “I can feel my toes!”

The men of Bridge Four waited only briefly before pressing in with cries of excitement. Joyspren swirled around the group, like a sweeping gust of blue leaves. Amid them, Lopen shoved in close and made the Bridge Four salute.

His family, at long last, had arrived at the Shattered Plains.

and for all Renarin’s worries about not being useful, his healing had saved several lives.

“Surely, Janala, you didn’t just try to insult the son of the highprince.” “What? No, no of course I didn’t.” “Good,” Shallan said. “Because, if you had been trying to insult him, you did a terrible job. And I’ve heard that you’re very clever. So full of wit, and charm, and … other things.”

“Thank you.” “For?” “Defending my honor. When Adolin does that, someone usually gets stabbed. Your way was pleasanter.”

Shallan cocked her head as she saw Renarin glance at his father. Dalinar responded with a raised fist. He came so Renarin wouldn’t feel awkward, Shallan realized. It can’t be improper or feminine for the prince to be here if the storming Blackthorn decides to attend. She didn’t miss the way that Renarin actually raised his eyes to watch the rest of the proceedings.

“Shove them off edge of plateau,” Rock said. “Those who fly, we let in.” “Any serious suggestions?” Kaladin asked.

“You godless whore,” Amaram hissed, releasing her. “If you weren’t a woman…” “If I weren’t a woman, I suspect we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Unless I were a pig. Then you’d be doubly interested.”

“It’s feminine,” Drehy added. “Drehy,” Kaladin said, “you are literally courting a man.”

“I’m the other one, Dalinar. They call me Odium.”

No Radiant is capable of more than you. Yours is the power of Connection, of joining men and worlds, minds and souls. Your Surges are the greatest of all, though they will be impotent if you seek to wield them for mere battle.

The traveler. The one they called the King’s Wit. Angular features, a sharp nose, hair that was stark black. He was here.

Why was it so hard to remember? Did he have to keep slipping back down? Why couldn’t he stay up here in the sunlight, where everyone else lived?

Adolin Kholin was simply a good person. Powder-blue clothing and all. You couldn’t hate a man like him; storms, you kind of had to like him.

“Every child eventually realizes that her father isn’t actually God.”