Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive, #3)

by Brandon Sanderson

“You’re … old, aren’t you? Not a Herald, but as old as they are?” He slid his boots off the chair and leaned forward, holding her eyes. He smiled in a kindly way. “Child, when they were but babes, I had already lived dozens of lifetimes. ‘Old’ is a word you use for worn shoes. I’m something else entirely.”

“You want to change the world, Shallan. That’s well and good. But be careful. The world predates you. She has seniority.”

“You make it sound like having the power to change the world is a bad thing.” “Bad? No. Abhorrent, depressing, ghastly. Having power is a terrible burden, the worst thing imaginable, except for every other alternative.”

“No. Hedonism has never been enjoyment, Shallan, but the opposite. They take the wonderful things of life and indulge until they lose savor. It’s listening to beautiful music, performed so loud as to eliminate all subtlety—taking something beautiful and making it carnal.

“Evi…” Dalinar said. “I hate what this does to you,” she said softly. “I see beauty in you, Dalinar Kholin. I see a great man struggling against a terrible one. And sometimes, you get this look in your eyes. A horrible, terrifying nothingness. Like you have become a creature with no heart, feasting upon souls to fill that void, dragging painspren in your wake. It haunts me, Dalinar.”

Tanalan slumped on the ground. “Please…” “I,” Dalinar said softly, “am an animal.” “What—” “An animal,” Dalinar said, “reacts as it is prodded. You whip it, and it becomes savage. With an animal, you can start a tempest. Trouble is, once it’s gone feral, you can’t just whistle it back to you.” “Blackthorn!” Tanalan screamed. “Please! My children.” “I made a mistake years ago,” Dalinar said. “I will not be so foolish again.”

“You don’t know? How could you not know? But you killed our messengers. You poor fool. You poor, stupid fool.” Dalinar seized him by the chin, though the man was still held by his soldiers. “What?” “She came to us,” Tanalan said. “To plead. How could you have missed her? Do you track your own family so poorly?

The woman studied him, and reluctantly Kaladin summoned Syl as a Shardblade. Noro’s eyes bulged, and Ved nearly fainted—though Beard just grinned. “I’m here,” Kaladin said, resting the Sylblade on his shoulder, “on orders from King Elhokar and the Blackthorn. It’s my job to save Kholinar. And it’s time you started talking to me.” She smiled at him. “Come with me.”

For a while, she’d been … everybody. A hundred faces, cycling one after another. She searched them for comfort. Surely she could find someone who didn’t hurt. All the nearby refugees had fled, naming her a spren. They left her with those hundred faces, in silence, until her Stormlight died off. That left only Shallan. Unfortunately.

“Was it worth that boy’s life?” Shallan whispered. “I cannot judge the worth of a life. I would not dare to attempt it.”

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.”

“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.”

“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.”

It was all still there. But something about Wit’s words … I see only one woman here. The one who is standing up.

“But you’re a good king, Taravangian. You didn’t murder your way to your throne.” “Does it matter? One wrongly imprisoned man? One murder in an alley that a proper policing force could have stopped? The burden for the blood of those wronged must rest somewhere. I am the sacrifice. We, Dalinar Kholin, are the sacrifices. Society offers us up to trudge through dirty water so others may be clean.” He closed his eyes. “Someone has to fall, that others may stand.”

Together, they started up the slope, and Azure fell into step beside Adolin. “Where did you learn that kata?” “From my swordmaster. You?” “Likewise.”

Cultivation’s Perpendicularity, they call it. On your side, it’s in the Horneater Peaks.”

“How? Impossible. Unless … you’re Invested. What Heightening are you?” He squinted at Kaladin. “No. Something else. Merciful Domi … A Surgebinder? It has begun again?”

“The cost? There shouldn’t be a cost to being principled.” “Oh? What if making the right decision created a spren who instantly blessed you with wealth, prosperity, and unending happiness? What then? Would you still have principles? Isn’t a principle about what you give up, not what you gain?”

“Sometimes, a hypocrite is nothing more than a man who is in the process of changing.”

The monsters slammed fists toward Dalinar, and he shouted. “What is the most important step a man can take?”

“Spirit, mind, and body,” the wizened ardent said, her voice echoing in the stone catacomb. “Death is the separation of the three. The body remains in our realm, to be reused. The spirit rejoins the pool of divine essence that gave it birth. And the mind … the mind goes to the Tranquiline Halls to find its reward.”

“You, always about dreams. My soul weeps. Farewell, weeping soul. My dreams … about, always, You.” The poem slapped him harder than the others. He sought out Navani, and knew instantly that the ketek had been hers.

‘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.’

Leniency and mercy. Men set free despite crimes, because they were good fathers, or well-liked in the community, or in the favor of someone important. “Some of those who are set free change their lives and go on to produce for society. Others recidivate and create great tragedies. The thing is, Szeth-son-Neturo, we humans are terrible at spotting which will be which. The purpose of the law is so we do not have to choose. So our native sentimentality will not harm us.”

Most, Navani included, seemed to remember him as more noble than he deserved. Yet he didn’t ascribe any magic to this. It was simply the way of human beings, subtly changing the past in their minds to match their current beliefs.

The old man looked to Dalinar, then strangely wiped tears from his eyes. “Are … are you in pain?” Dalinar asked. “Yes. But it is nothing you can fix.” He hesitated. “You are a good man, Dalinar Kholin. I did not expect that.”

“You never did say,” she whispered, “which one you prefer.” “It’s obvious. I prefer the real you.” “Which one is that, though?” “She’s the one I’m talking to right now. You don’t have to hide, Shallan. You don’t have to push it down. Maybe the vase is cracked, but that only means it can show what’s inside. And I like what’s inside.”

Don’t tell me you believe that old story?” “One can believe in a story without believing it happened.” He smiled.

Images of war and death. A deadly storm. Dalinar faced it alone. One man. All that remained of a broken dream.

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.”

“No,” Szeth said. “I am not good at being a person. It is … a failing of mine.”

Szeth settled down lightly beside her. “I have failed to carry this burden.” “That’s okay. Your weird face is burden enough for one man.” “Your words are wise,” he said, nodding.

Kaladin floated downward toward him. “Ten spears go to battle,” he whispered, “and nine shatter. Did that war forge the one that remained? No, Amaram. All the war did was identify the spear that would not break.”

He stumbled toward Kaladin, gemstone heart pulsing with light. A Shardblade formed in his hand. The one that had killed Kaladin’s friends so long ago. “Amaram,” Kaladin whispered. “I can see what you are. What you’ve always been.”

A glowing figure stood on some rubble beyond, holding Amaram’s enormous Shardbow. The weapon seemed to match Rock, tall and brilliant, a beacon in the darkness.

Dalinar met her eyes. “I want you to teach me how to read.”

These broken slaves were the only other witnesses to this moment. The final death of Jezrien. Yaezir. Jezerezeh’Elin, king of Heralds. A figure known in myth and lore as the greatest human who had ever lived.