Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive, #3)

by Brandon Sanderson

She resisted as the others pulled her away. She wept to leave the music behind. Wept for her people, who might be destroyed for tonight’s action. Wept for the world, which might never know what the listeners had done for it. Wept for the king, whom she had consigned to death.

engaged, sweeping at one another, frantic. Life was about momentum. Pick a direction and don’t let anything—man or storm—turn you aside.

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.

Lirin hesitated, then looked back at Kaladin. Then his eyes opened wide. “Hello, Father,” Kaladin said.

“I should have saved him,” Kaladin whispered. “You shouldn’t have gone in the first place,” Lirin said. “But now … Almighty, now you’re back.” Lirin stood up, tears leaking down his cheeks. “My son! My son is alive!”

“So how can you remember them?” Kaladin said, frowning. “Because I do,” Syl said, flitting around him. “Everyone is connected, Kaladin. Everything is connected. I didn’t know you then, but the winds did, and I am of the winds.” “You’re honorspren.” “The winds are of Honor,” she said, laughing as if he’d said something ridiculous. “We are kindred blood.”

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. Curiously, Kaladin’s father just lowered his head and closed his eyes. “Any other questions?” Kaladin asked.

“So … some of my spears have been women, then?” he asked. “Female, at least,” Syl said. “Roughly half, as these things tend to go.” She flitted up into the air in front of him. “It’s your fault for personifying us, so no complaining.

And yet he wept. “What’s his name?” “Oroden.” “Child of peace,” Kaladin whispered. “A good name. A very good name.”

“Highprince Dalinar Kholin,” Kaladin said, Stormlight puffing before his lips, “has refounded the Knights Radiant. And this time, we will not fail you.”

This was how it should be. Dalinar, Gavilar, Sadeas. Together. Other responsibilities didn’t matter. Life was about the fight.

“You can’t have my daddy,” the boy said, words distorted by his sorrow. Painspren crawled around the floor. “You can’t. You … you…” His voice fell to a whisper. “Daddy said … we fight monsters. And with faith, we will win.…”

It was the only drug he cared about for the pain—and maybe it would help with the shame too. Both feelings seemed stark, now that the Thrill had receded and left him deflated.

“Oathbringer?” “Your sword,” Gavilar said. “Storms, didn’t you listen to anything last night? That’s Sunmaker’s old sword.” Sadees, the Sunmaker. He had been the last man to unite Alethkar, centuries ago. Dalinar shifted the Blade in his lap, letting the light play off the pristine metal. “It’s yours now,” Gavilar said. “By the time we’re done, I’ll have it so that nobody even thinks of Sunmaker anymore. Just House Kholin and Alethkar.”

The words still warmed Dalinar. Someone had listened. Someone was willing to join him. Bless that man, bless him. If Dalinar failed everywhere else, at least he would have King Taravangian at his side.

“What,” Pattern said with a hum, “is a chaperone?” “That is someone who watches two young people when they are together, to make certain they don’t do anything inappropriate.” “Inappropriate?” Pattern said. “Such as … dividing by zero?”

Can he break oaths?” No, the Stormfather said. He is far greater than I, but the power of ancient Adonalsium permeates him. And controls him. Odium is a force like pressure, gravitation, or the movement of time. These things cannot break their own rules. Nor can he.

Time, the Stormfather said. Which, though dross to him, is the most valuable thing a man can have.

“I didn’t mean you specifically,” Kaladin said. “Your ancestors—the people like you from long ago. There was a war, and…” Storms. How did you explain slavery to a seven-year-old?

Pattern seemed pleased by this, as his humming increased—though his sounds of pleasure and his sounds of agitation could be similar.

I wonder if men who use cords to bind are fools, since tradition, society, and momentum are going to tie us all down anyway.”

“Yeah. Mother Cultivation can be hateful. I’m an all-powerful, Shardblade-wielding pseudo-immortal, but nature still sends a friendly reminder every now and then to tell me I should be getting around to having children.” “No mating,” Pattern buzzed softly on the wall.

“Morality is an axis that doesn’t interest us,” Mraize said calmly.

“Don’t deflect your evils by pointing out the faults of others,”

“History is rife with examples of soldiers assuming orders when there were none,” Ialai said. “I agree that Dalinar would never knife an old friend in dark quarters. His soldiers may not be so inhibited.

But you—and take this with the respect I intend—are a hypocrite. “You stand where you do because of a brutal determination to do what had to be done. It is because of that trail of corpses that you have the luxury to uphold some lofty, nebulous code. Well, it might make you feel better about your past, but morality is not a thing you can simply doff to put on the helm of battle, then put back on when you’re done with the slaughter.”

“But sometimes a hypocrite is nothing more than a person who is in the process of changing.”

He needed more than vague explanations and abstract ideas—but those were the very soul of art.

Shallan. She was Shallan again—innocent, lively Shallan. Quick with a quip, even when nobody wanted to hear it. Earnest, but sometimes overeager. She could be that person. That’s you, a part of her cried as she adopted the persona. That’s the real you. Isn’t it? Why do you have to paint that face over another?

“Do better,” he said to her. “These people are your charge now. You’ve seized the city, taken what you want. If you wish to claim any kind of moral superiority, treat your captives better than they did you.”

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.

What was that small spren that had crept out from beneath Eshonai’s corpse? It looked like a small ball of white fire; it gave off little rings of light and trailed a streak behind it. Like a comet.

“It’s wrong, sir. It’s imitating an oath without the commitment.

“You look like somebody washed you way too much,” Sylphrena said. “They took a scrub brush to you, and rubbed your skin off! And that’s why your hair is red, because you got so sore!” “These are wise words,” Lunamor said. He wasn’t sure why yet. He’d have to ponder them.

Lunamor opened his mouth to object, then thought better of it. Some days, the more honorable thing was to take a gift without complaint.

“I don’t mind people believing what works for them, Uncle. That’s something nobody ever seems to understand—I have no stake in their beliefs. I don’t need company to be confident.”

THEY DECIDED TO STAY HERE, RISKING AN ETERNAL DESOLATION, BUT HOPING THAT THE ONE THEY LEFT IN DAMNATION WOULD ALONE BE ENOUGH TO HOLD IT ALL TOGETHER. THE ONE WHO WASN’T MEANT TO HAVE JOINED THEM IN THE FIRST PLACE, THE ONE WHO WAS NOT A KING, SCHOLAR, OR GENERAL. “Talenelat,” Dalinar said. THE BEARER OF AGONIES. THE ONE ABANDONED IN DAMNATION. LEFT TO WITHSTAND THE TORTURES ALONE. “Almighty above,” Navani whispered. “How long has it been? Over a thousand years, right?” FOUR AND A HALF THOUSAND YEARS, the Stormfather said. FOUR AND A HALF MILLENNIA OF TORTURE.

“I can’t afford to stay my hand from war,” Dalinar said. “Everything you say is right, but it is also nothing new. I have never gone to battle where some poor fools on either side—men who didn’t want to be there in the first place—weren’t going to bear the brunt of the pain.” “Maybe,” Kaladin said, “that should make you reconsider those other wars, rather than using them to justify this one.”

These days, he needed the moss to feel normal.

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.

Without the rhythms, men needed help understanding one another.

Those who claimed a Shard this day would become rulers. It bothered Dalinar that the best men, the ones calling for moderation or raising concerns, would be rare among their numbers. They weren’t aggressive enough to seize the advantage.

“Where have you been?” Dalinar said. “I’ve always been here,” God said. “Always with you, Dalinar. Oh, I’ve watched you for a long, long time.” “Here? You’re … not the Almighty, are you?” “Honor? No, he truly is dead, as you’ve been told.” The old man’s smile deepened, genuine and kindly. “I’m the other one, Dalinar. They call me Odium.”

“I mean, old men are all creepy,” Lift said. “Seriously. All wrinkly and ‘Hey, want some sweets?’ and ‘Oh, listen to this boring story.’ I’m on to them. They can act nice all they want, but nobody gets old without ruining a whole buncha lives.”

No, the man he’d been twenty years ago could never have done this. Bondsmith.

This city was brimming with them. It was stuffed with them, so tightly they couldn’t help but ooze out. The only thing for Shallan to do, then, was punch herself in the face.

This endless talking left him so uncertain. Would the viziers dismiss the essays? Jasnah’s reputation seemed to be powerful even here, but they’d seemed less impressed by her argument than by the way she expressed it.

“The contests of kingdoms are supposed to be a masculine art,” he said. “I should be able to do this myself.” The Stormfather rumbled, not truly in disagreement. Just in … amusement?

I’ll promise you at least a year there.” “Really?” Evi said, standing up. “Yes. You’ve won this fight.” “I … don’t feel like I’ve won.…” “Welcome to war, Evi,” Dalinar said, heading toward the door. “There are no unequivocal wins. Just victories that leave fewer of your friends dead than others.”

A day after being murdered in a brutal fashion, Shallan found that she was feeling much better.