Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive, #3)

by Brandon Sanderson

“I’ve seen creatures that could do this,” he said, kneeling beside one of the stones, feeling the rough gash in the granite surface. “In my visions, I witnessed a stone monster that ripped itself free of the underlying rock.

The wave of destruction struck, crashing against Dalinar, and he shouted defiance. He had not bowed before the highstorm; he would not bow before this! He faced it head-on, and in the blast of power that ripped apart the ground, he saw something. A golden light, brilliant yet terrible. Standing before it, a dark figure in black Shardplate. The figure had nine shadows, each spreading out in a different direction, and its eyes glowed a brilliant red.

“What was that light I saw?” he whispered. I saw no light, the Stormfather said. “It was brilliant and golden, but terrible,” Dalinar whispered. “It bathed everything in its heat.” Odium, the Stormfather rumbled. The enemy. The god who had killed the Almighty. The force behind the Desolations. “Nine shadows,” Dalinar whispered, trembling. Nine shadows? The Unmade. His minions, ancient spren.

Somehow we’ll make them listen—even if they’ve got their fingers planted firmly in their ears. Makes one wonder how they manage it, with their heads rammed up their own backsides.”

Life was about momentum. Pick a direction and don’t let anything—man or storm—turn you aside.

“Is that a proposal?” “… Yes?” “Dalinar Kholin,” she said. “Surely you can do better.” He rested his hand on the back of her head, touching her black hair, which she had left loose. “Better than you, Navani? No, I don’t think that I could. I don’t think that any man has ever had a chance better than this.” She smiled, and her only reply was a kiss.

There are no foolish oaths. All are the mark of men and true spren over beasts and subspren. The mark of intelligence, free will, and choice.

“I gave you people an order,” Kaladin said. “I’m not fond of repeating myself.” “And what,” Roshone said, “makes you think you can order anyone around, boy?” Kaladin turned back and swept his arm before him, summoning Syl. A bright, dew-covered Shardblade formed from mist into his hand. He spun the Blade and rammed her down into the floor in one smooth motion. He held the grip, feeling his eyes bleed to blue. Everything grew still. Townspeople froze, gaping. Roshone’s eyes bulged.

“Syl?” Kaladin whispered. “I might need you again.” “You sound apologetic,” she replied, cocking her head. “I am. I don’t like the idea of swinging you about, smashing you into things.” She sniffed. “Firstly, I don’t smash into things. I am an elegant and graceful weapon, stupid. Secondly, why would you be bothered?” “It doesn’t feel right,” Kaladin replied, still whispering. “You’re a woman, not a weapon.”

“The enemy’s champion,” Dalinar said, eyes narrowing. “In the visions, Honor told me our best chance of survival involved forcing Odium to accept a contest of champions. I’ve seen the enemy’s champion—a creature in black armor, with red eyes. A parshman perhaps. It had nine shadows.”

Sylblade

The trick to happiness wasn’t in freezing every momentary pleasure and clinging to each one, but in ensuring one’s life would produce many future moments to anticipate.

“Very well, you two,” Pattern said. “No mating. NO MATING.” He hummed to himself, as if pleased, then sank down onto a plate.

Gloryspren burst up about Kaladin’s head. Syl took on the form of a person just so she could glower at the little bobbing balls of light. “Mine,” she said, swatting one of them aside.

“Even Rock beat your time, and he was skipping like a girl the last third.” “Was Horneater dance of victory,” Rock said from near Leyten. “Is very manly.”

As long as you keep trying, there’s a chance. When you give up? That’s when the dream dies.”

“Words are important,” Gavilar said. “Much more than you give them credit for being.” “Perhaps,” Dalinar said. “But if they were all-powerful, you wouldn’t need my sword, would you?” “Perhaps. I can’t help feeling words would be enough, if only I knew the right ones to say.”

“You’d better be sure of that,” Dalinar said. “Because if I win here, I’m going to have to make an example. I’ll break you, Tanalan. Your sorry, weeping city will be held up before all who would defy my brother. Be absolutely certain you want to fight me, because once this starts, I will be forced to leave only widows and corpses to populate the Rift.”

The longer you live, the more you fail. 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.”

They looked out at the street and found Kaladin approaching along with what seemed to be an army of five or six hundred men, wearing the uniforms of the Wall Guard. Adolin sighed softly. “Of course. He’s probably their leader now or something. Storming bridgeboy.”

Szeth undid the clasp on the sword and drew it. A rushing sound, like a thousand screams. A wave of power, like the beating of a terrible, stunning wind. Colors changed around him. They deepened, growing darker and more vibrant. The city nobleman’s cloak became a stunning array of deep oranges and blood reds.

‘The question,’ she replied, ‘is not whether you will love, hurt, dream, and die. It is what you will love, why you will hurt, when you will dream, and how you will die. This is your choice. You cannot pick the destination, only the path.’

I can’t fail him! Kaladin looked over his shoulder toward Syl, who held him lightly by the arm. She nodded. “The Words, Kaladin.”

Soldiers cursed and coughed, backing up as something resolved in the center of the tempest. A figure in the smoke, glowing white and holding a jet-black Shardblade that seemed to feed on the smoke, sucking it in, then letting it pour down beneath itself as a liquid blackness. White and black. A man with a shaved head, eyes glowing a light grey, Stormlight rising from him. He straightened and strode through the smoke, leaving an afterimage behind. Lift had seen this man before. The Assassin in White. Murderer. And apparently savior.

Alone. Dalinar held a fist to his chest. So alone. It hurt to breathe, to think. But something stirred inside his fist. He opened bleeding fingers. The most … the most important … Inside his fist, he somehow found a golden sphere. A solitary gloryspren. The most important step a man can take. It’s not the first one, is it? It’s the next one. Always the next step, Dalinar. Trembling, bleeding, agonized, Dalinar forced air into his lungs and spoke a single ragged sentence. “You cannot have my pain.”

“I will take responsibility for what I have done,” Dalinar whispered. “If I must fall, I will rise each time a better man.”

Unite them! Gloryspren streamed around Dalinar. Thousands of golden spheres, more spren than he’d ever seen in one place. They swirled around him in a column of golden light. Beyond it, Odium stumbled back. So small, Dalinar thought. Has he always looked that small?

He raised a familiar Shardblade. Dalinar’s Shardblade, Oathbringer. Passed from tyrant to tyrant to tyrant. A portion of light split from Dalinar’s column. Amaram swung Oathbringer with a shout, but the light met the Shardblade with an explosion of sparks, throwing Amaram backward—as if the strength of Shardplate were no more than that of a child. The light resolved into a man with shoulder-length wavy hair, a blue uniform, and a silvery spear in his hand. A second glowing form split off into Shallan Davar, brilliant red hair streaming behind her, a long thin Shardblade with a slight curve forming in her hands. And then, blessedly, Adolin appeared.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Save the city. Be Radiant, Shallan.” She kissed him, then turned and stood. That white clothing seemed to glow, the red hair a striking swatch, as Stormlight rose from her. Pattern appeared as a Shardblade with a faint, almost invisible latticework running up the length. She wove her power, and an army climbed from the ground around her.

A luminous wall expanded from the Oathgate platform in a ring, trailing a glowing afterimage. It faded to reveal an entire division of Alethi troops in Kholin blue standing upon the Oathgate platform. Then, like a Herald from lore, a man rose into the air above them. Glowing white with Stormlight, the bearded man carried a long silver Shardspear with a strange crossguard shape behind the tip. Teft. Knight Radiant.