Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive, #3)

by Brandon Sanderson

“I had it reversed. I thought Brightness Shallan was the persona. But the spy—that’s the false identity.” “Wrong,” Shallan said. “They’re both equally false.”

A group of people all trying to impress one another was always more dangerous than the lone psychopath.

She left the park as Veil playing a part. She tried to keep this distinction sharp in her mind. She was still Veil. Merely in disguise.

I'm a dude playing a dude disguised as another dude.

Tezim, the god-priest of Tukar? Is it him? Ishi, Herald of Luck, is the man who has been waging war against Emul?”

None of this rings any bells.

He hoped he could remember it exactly to repeat to Navani—of course, if the Stormfather was listening, he’d correct Dalinar’s mistakes. The Stormfather hated to be misquoted.

The clock fabrial on his forearm dinged, and Dalinar stifled a sigh. She’d learned to make it ding?

The Reshi girl, Lift, had obtained permission from the Azish court to unlock the Oathgate on their side. The emperor was—at long last—willing to meet with Dalinar in the flesh.

Lift cocked her head. “Huh. You smell like her.” “Her?” “The crazy spren who lives in the forest.” “You’ve met the Nightwatcher?” “Yeah … You?” He nodded.

It was gratifying to see how much one could accomplish in both politics and trade by liberally murdering the other fellow’s soldiers.

Well.

“Ten glyphs,” Adolin said, “denouncing Aesudan’s excess. Wasting food while people starved. Increasing taxes, then throwing lavish parties for her ardents. Elhokar, this started long before the Everstorm.”

Oh riiiiight. I remember that.

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

Hoid!

Wit glanced to the side, where he’d put his pack. He started, as if surprised. Shallan cocked her head as he quickly recovered, jumping back into the story so fast that it was easy to miss his lapse. But now, as he spoke, he searched the audience with careful eyes.

Lift

Shallan slipped forward and glanced inside his pack, catching sight of a small jar, sealed at the top. It was mostly black, but the side pointed toward her was instead white. Wit snapped the pack closed.

Should that mean something?

“Then what are you?” “Some men, as they age, grow kinder. I am not one of those, for I have seen how the cosmere can mistreat the innocent—and that leaves me disinclined toward kindness. Some men, as they age, grow wiser. I am not one of those, for wisdom and I have always been at cross-purposes, and I have yet to learn the tongue in which she speaks. Some men, as they age, grow more cynical. I, fortunately, am not one of those. If I were, the very air would warp around me, sucking in all emotion, leaving only scorn.” He tapped the table. “Other men … other men, as they age, merely grow stranger. I fear that I am one of those. I am the bones of a foreign species left drying on the plain that was once, long ago, a sea. A curiosity, perhaps a reminder, that all has not always been as it is now.”

“You … do seem to enjoy yourself a great deal.” “I like to live every day like it’s my last.” Shallan nodded. “And by that I mean lying in a puddle of my own urine, calling for the nurse to bring me more pudding.” She almost choked on a bite of cremling.

“You look like you tripped and fell into a bucket of blue paint,” Kaladin said, “then tried to dry off with a handful of parched grass.” “And you look like what the storm leaves behind,” Adolin said, passing by and patting Kaladin on the shoulder. “We like you anyway. Every boy has a favorite stick he found out in the yard after the rains.”

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

That's called depression, friend.

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.

It really feels like Sanderson is going to kill him eventually.

He slapped Kaladin on the back and pointed toward their barracks ahead. “I’d love to hear it. Free meal, no strings. We won’t press you into service. I give my oath.” Well, he’d wanted information about the leader of the Wall Guard, hadn’t he? What better place to get it than from these men? Kaladin picked up his spear and let them lead him away.

Cooked.

“I intend to so thoroughly ruin this place that for ten generations, nobody will dare build here for fear of the spirits who will haunt it. We will make a pyre of this city, and there shall be no weeping for its passing, for none will remain to weep.”

Jesus, dude. Have a Snickers.

But Veil is a false face, a part of her said. You could always abandon her. She strangled that part of her, smothered it deep. Veil was too real, too vital, to abandon. Shallan would be easier.

Insane.

You tried to help the people of the market. You mostly failed. This is life. 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.”

“I’m a terrible teacher.” He waved his hand as the girl reached the wall after a long hike. She started to climb. “Fortunately, I am an artist, and not a teacher.” “People learn things from art.” “Blasphemy! Art is not art if it has a function.” Shallan rolled her eyes.

“You’re not a monster, Shallan,” Wit whispered. “Oh, child. The world is monstrous at times, and there are those who would have you believe that you are terrible by association.” “I am.” “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.”

If you do not trust yourself, can you trust me? For in you, I see a woman more wonderful than any of the lies.

“Wit?” she asked. “I … I can’t do it.” He smiled. “There are certain things I know, Shallan. This is one of them. You can. Find the balance. Accept the pain, but don’t accept that you deserved

Trembling, Shallan closed her eyes and pressed her hand against the heart. It felt real, like warm flesh. Like in Urithiru, touching the thing let her sense it. Feel it. Know it. It tried to sweep her away.

I will show you, Sja-anat said. I will try. My promise is not strong, for I cannot know. But I will try. “Try what?” Shallan asked. Try not to kill you. With those words haunting her, Shallan engaged the Oathgate.

“But you’re a good king, Taravangian. You didn’t murder your way to your throne.”

Bet.

Whenever she encountered things like this, she had to remind herself forcefully that the Alethi being technologically superior did not make them culturally superior. They’d simply had access to more resources.

The need for clean clothing outlived disasters. The end of the world could come, but that would only mean more bloodstains to wash.

“Madness,” Ahu said, then giggled. “I used to think it wasn’t my fault. But you know, we can’t escape what we did? We let them in. We attracted them, befriended them, took them out to dance and courted them. It is our fault. You open yourself to it, and you pay the price. They ripped my brain out and made it dance! I watched.”

“It’s good you aren’t so eager,” Tukks said. “Means you’re sane. I’ll take ten unskilled men with earnest hearts over one callous idiot who thinks this is all a game.”

“Lightspren are usually guides,” Azure continued. “They like to travel, to see new places. They sail all across Roshar’s Shadesmar, peddling goods, trading with other spren. Um … you’re supposed to watch out for Cryptics.” Pattern hummed happily. “Yes. We are very famous.”

About the size of a toddler, it hopped close to him, then tipped the entire top half of its head backward. A long tongue shot up in the air from the gaping mouth; it began to flap and wave. Storms. An anticipationspren? They looked like streamers on his side, but those … those were waving tongues? What other simple, stable parts of his life were complete lies?

We honorspren mimic Honor himself. You Cryptics mimic … weird stuff?” “The fundamental underlying mathematics by which natural phenomena occur. Mmm. Truths that explain the fabric of existence.” “Yeah. Weird stuff.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” “I dragged it out back and clubbed it senseless for getting me into the army.

It took being a soldier to understand the heroism of simply being willing to continue after all your friends had died.

“I should have known this disguise wouldn’t work,” she added. “I’m obviously too beautiful and interesting to hide.”

“Sylphrena, the Ancient Daughter?” one shouted. “That’s me!” she shouted back. “You’d better catch me before I scamper away! Wow! I’m feeling capricious today. I might just vanish again, off to where nobody can find me!” It worked.

He remembered those days as a haze of frustration, sorrow, agony. And drink. A great deal of drink. He’d been using the stupor to drive away the pain. A terrible bandage for his wounds, blood seeping out on all sides. But so far, it had kept him alive.

“But maybe you shouldn’t be looking for life to be easier because you choose to do something that is right! Personally, I think life is fair. It’s merely that often, you can’t immediately see what balances it.”

‘So I can but repeat what has been done before?’ “ ‘In some things, yes. You will love. You will hurt. You will dream. And you will die. Each man’s past is your future.’ “ ‘Then what is the point?’ I asked. ‘If all has been seen and done?’ “ ‘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.’ ”

All life worked in concert, he’d been taught in his youth. Everything but men, who refused their place. Who destroyed instead of added.

You should draw me, the sword said. “And do what, sword-nimi?” Szeth whispered. Fight him. I think he might be evil. “He is one of the Heralds—one of the least-evil things in the world.” Huh. Doesn’t bode well for your world, then.

“If I might say … You seem stronger today. You’ve decided something?” “More, I’ve remembered something.” “Is it something you can share with a worried old man?”

Fuck off, old man.

“Ialai,” Jasnah said, “it is good you are here. Sometimes, an intelligent dissenting voice tests and proves a theory. I do wish you’d work harder on the intelligent part.”

She wore the skirt that Adolin had purchased for her, hoping it would make her feel more like Shallan. Veil kept poking through, which could be useful—but the way it just kind of happened was frightening to her. This was the opposite of what Wit had told her to do, wasn’t it?

Veil IS Shallan. Shallan IS Veil.

“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.” So warm. Comfortable. And strikingly unfamiliar. What was this peace? This place without fear?

Bless.

Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination. Together, these Words formed the First Ideal of the Windrunners. He’d said them, but he wasn’t certain he understood them. The Second Ideal made more direct sense. I will protect those who cannot protect themselves. Straightforward, yes … but overwhelming. The world was a place of suffering. Was he really supposed to try to prevent it all? I will protect even those I hate, so long as it is right. The Third Ideal meant standing up for anyone, if needed. But who decided what was “right”? Which side was he supposed to protect? The Fourth Ideal was unknown to him, but the closer he drew to it, the more frightened he became. What would it demand of him?