Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive, #3)

by Brandon Sanderson

“Take that to the Five and explain what I told you. Tell them to remember what your people once were. Wake up, Eshonai.” He patted her on the shoulder, then left the room. She stared at that terrible light, and—from the songs—knew it for what it was. The forms of power had been associated with a dark light, a light from the king of gods. She plucked the sphere off the table and went running.

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

The Everstorm was so wrong, so unnatural—like a baby born with no face. Some things just should not be.

He knew battlefields like a woman knew her mother’s recipes: he might not be able to give you measurements, but he could taste when something was off.

Some things are better left forgotten, the voice said to him. You of all men should understand this, considering the hole in your mind and the person who once filled it. Dalinar drew in a sharp breath, stung by the words.

Dalinar’s shoulder protested as he stretched. He had found middle age to be like an assassin—quiet, creeping along behind him. Much of the time he would go about his life as he always had, until an unexpected ache or pain gave warning. He was not the youth he had once been.

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.

Oh, dear.

“I just realized,” he said, “this is your bedroom.” “And my drawing room, and my sitting room, and my dining room, and my ‘Adolin says obvious things’ room. It’s quite versatile, this room—singular—of mine. Why?”

“Pattern, you’re to be our chaperone tonight.” “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?” “What?” Shallan asked, looking to Adolin, who shrugged.

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.

“An assassin.” “Seriously,” Shallan said. “He almost killed me with a loaf of poisoned bread.” “Wow. I have to hear this story.” “Fortunately, I just told it to you. His name was Kabsal, and he was so incredibly sweet to me that I can almost forgive him for trying to kill me.”

“I know it’s not feminine, but who cares? You’ve got a sword; you should know how to use it, and custom can go to Damnation. There, I said it.” He took a deep breath. “I mean, the bridgeboy can have one, and he’s darkeyed. Well, he was. Anyway, it’s not so different from that.” Thank you, Shallan thought, for ranking all women as something equivalent to peasants. But she held her tongue. This was obviously an important moment for Adolin, and he was trying to be broad-minded.

You aren't any better, ho.

“Falsehoods serve nobody, Kadash,” Dalinar said, pulling back. “If the Almighty is dead, then pretending otherwise is pure stupidity. We need real hope, not faith in lies.”

“It is grotesque,” he continued, “but you all must kill and destroy to live. It is the way of the Physical Realm. So I should not hate Adolin Kholin for wielding a corpse!” “You just like him,” Veil said, “because he tells Radiant to respect the sword.” “Mmm. Yes, very, very nice man. Wonderfully smart too.”

The whole group reminded her of Tyn in the way they lounged in an almost deliberate way. It took effort to look so indifferent.

“What’s the point of conquering if you can never sit back and enjoy it? Shubreth-son-Mashalan, Sunmaker, even the Hierocracy … they all stretched farther and farther until they collapsed. In all the history of mankind, has any conqueror decided they had enough? Has any man just said, ‘This is good. This is what I wanted,’ and gone home?”

“And that’s why we should be free now? Because we’re acting like you? We deserved slavery before, when we were different? It’s all right to dominate us when we won’t fight back, but now it’s not, because we can talk?” “Well, I mean—” “That’s why I’m angry! Thank you for what you’re showing us, but don’t expect me to be happy that I need you for it. This just reinforces the belief within you, maybe even within myself, that your people should be the ones who decide upon our freedom in the first place.”

I don’t dare—the only way I can fight the Voidbringers is to pretend there’s a difference between the ones I have to protect and the ones I have to kill.”

I’m kind of hoping for some moral support.” “Don’t hit the message too hard. If you want someone to believe what you’re telling them, come to your point gradually, so they’re with you the entire time.” He cocked his head. “Oh, not that kind of moral,” Shallan said. “Talking to you can be weird sometimes.” “Sorry, sorry. I’ll be good.”

“Ah, how I wish this day hadn’t come.” “You sound as if you anticipated it, Your Majesty,” Dalinar said. Taravangian laughed softly. “Don’t you?

It had been a fine fight. He’d accomplished what he’d wanted. He’d conquered all who stood before him. And yet he felt empty. A voice within him kept saying, “That’s it? Weren’t we promised more?”

You are not a hypocrite, Son of Honor. “I am,” Dalinar said softly. “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. If you could explain something perfectly, then you’d never need art. That was the difference between a table and a beautiful woodcutting. You could explain the table: its purpose, its shape, its nature. The woodcutting you simply had to experience.

She took off Veil’s hat and long white coat, then hid them behind the debris. Stormlight enfolded her, painting the image of a havah over her trousers, gloved hand, and tight buttoned shirt. 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?

“She’s here,” Renarin whispered. “One of the Unmade. Re-Shephir … the Midnight Mother.” “Run, Shallan!” Adolin shouted.

she wove versions of herself. Young and old, confident and frightened. A dozen different Shallans. With a shock, she realized that several were pictures she’d lost, self-portraits she’d practiced with a mirror, as Dandos the Oilsworn had insisted was vital for an aspiring artist. 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.

She’d touched the storming Midnight Mother. A name from ancient lore, one of the Unmade, princes of the Voidbringers. People sang about Re-Shephir in poetry and epics, describing her as a dark, beautiful figure. Paintings depicted her as a black-clad woman with red eyes and a sultry gaze. That seemed to exemplify how little they really remembered about these things.

They were so involved in their shouting match that they didn’t even respond to the glare, though it had been one of her best.

Storms. She was perfect. A curvaceous figure, tan Alethi skin, light violet eyes, and not a hint of aberrant color to her jet-black hair. Making Jasnah Kholin as beautiful as she was brilliant was one of the most unfair things the Almighty had ever done.

Shallan continued her sketch. It was nice to be reminded that, for all their differences, there were occasional things that she and Jasnah shared. She just wished that ignorance weren’t at the top of the list.

He took a deep breath. “I failed the exams for government training in Azir. I wasn’t good enough.” “Then the exams were stupid,” Kaladin said. “And Azir lost out, because they missed the chance to have you.” Sigzil smiled. “I’m glad they did.” And … strangely, he felt it was true. A nameless weight he’d been carrying seemed to slide off his back.

“It’s like you’re dead,” Evi said. Dalinar looked over at her. “It’s like you only live when you can fight,” she continued. “When you can kill. Like a blackness from old stories. You live only by taking lives from others.”

That soft voice, pleading. The Thrill had vanished in a moment. “He was a child, Gavilar,” Dalinar said, his voice hoarse.

Oh thank god.

“Did you … did you stick yourself to the ground?” Kaladin asked. “Just part of the plan, gon!” Lopen called back. “If I am to become a delicate cloud upon the sky, I must first convince the ground that I am not abandoning her. Like a worried lover, sure, she must be comforted and reassured that I will return following my dramatic and regal ascent to the sky.”

Cooking was like warfare. You had to know your enemy—though his “enemies” in this contest were his friends. They came to each meal expecting greatness, and Lunamor fought to prove himself time and time again. He waged war with breads and soups, sating appetites and satisfying stomachs.

But where is his god? Lunamor could see all spren. Prince Renarin had bonded one, except Lunamor had never been able to spot it. He bowed when Renarin wasn’t looking, just in case, and made a sign of reverence to the hidden god.

Hm.

Know your enemy. Out here, with the right drink, he was a little god unto himself. Ha! A god of cool drinks and friendly advice.

Lunamor nodded, then by habit checked toward the west as he’d been doing all day. This time he spotted something. It looked like a plume of smoke.

What are you waiting on, my guy?

Lunamor looked to the right, where someone had piled up furniture in a heap, almost like a fortification. A head poked up over the top, a stout woman with a round face and a deep red braid. She stood up tall and raised a bow toward Lunamor. Other faces peeked out from behind the furniture. Two youths, a boy and a girl, both around sixteen. Younger faces from there. Six in total. Lunamor dashed toward them and found himself blubbering, tears streaming down his cheeks as he crawled up the outside of their improvised fortification.

Awww...

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.

“Tell me what happened,” Dalinar said. “What really happened?” ARE YOU READY FOR THIS STORY? THERE ARE PARTS YOU WILL NOT LIKE. “If I have accepted that God is dead, I can accept the fall of his Heralds.”

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.

“It’s him!” he shouted. “The madman. He really is a Herald!” HE FINALLY BROKE, the Stormfather said. HE HAS JOINED THE NINE, WHO STILL LIVE. IN THESE MILLENNIA NONE HAVE EVER DIED AND RETURNED TO DAMNATION,

“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.”

“I see … three lines of notes here? After you were pointedly instructed to take the minutes.” “We should have sent for a scribe.” “We had a scribe. To take notes is not a lowly task, Shallan. It is a service you can provide.” “If it’s not a lowly task,” Shallan said, “then perhaps you should have done it.”

“You’ve always hidden things from me. Some of those secrets were very damaging, and I find myself unwilling to believe you don’t have others.” Shallan bit her lip, but nodded. “That was an invitation,” Jasnah said, “to talk to me.” Shallan nodded again. She wasn’t working with the Ghostbloods. That was Veil. And Jasnah didn’t need to know about Veil. Jasnah couldn’t know about Veil.

Good lord.

“Storms. She makes me feel like a child.” “Mmm.” “Worst part is, she’s probably right,” Shallan said. “Around her, I do act more like a child. It’s like part of me wants to let her take care of everything. And I hate, hate, hate that about myself.” “Is there a solution?” “I don’t know.” “Perhaps … act like an adult?”

Damn.

Nale himself is ruthless, without pity or mercy. He has spent the last two decades—perhaps much longer—dealing with anyone close to bonding a spren. Sometimes he recruited these people, bonding them to highspren and making them Skybreakers. Others he eliminated.

Darkness!

“He’s dangling tidbits in front of me,” Shallan said. “Like a man on the docks who has a trained kurl that will dance and wave its arms for fish.” “But … we want those tidbits, don’t we?” “That’s why it works.”