Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive, #3)

by Brandon Sanderson

“Anyway,” Shallan said. “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?”

“You just like him,” Veil said, “because he tells Radiant to respect the sword.” “Mmm. Yes, very, very nice man. Wonderfully smart too.” “Why don’t you marry him, then?” Pattern buzzed. “Is that—” “No that’s not an option.” “Oh.”

“I found him!” he proclaimed. “I found Adolin!” “I see that,” Shallan said. “He came at me,” Adolin said, “in the training rooms, screaming that you’d found the killer. Said that if I didn’t come, you’d probably—and I quote—‘go do something stupid without letting me watch.’”

Shallan was supposed to be recovering from her ordeal, never mind that the bridgemen had handled the fighting. All she’d done was grope an eldritch spren.

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.

I know what you are Shallan Davar

“Child, I’m an Elsecaller.” “Of course. An Elsecaller, Brightness. A thing you never explained; a word which no one but the most dedicated scholar of the esoteric would recognize! That explains it perfectly.” Jasnah smiled for some reason.

“I suppose,” Kaladin said slowly, “that maybe you feel . . . like a moon. . . .” “No, not really.”

Kaladin slurped it down. “Hey, that’s pretty good, Rock!” “Is not my recipe,” Lunamor said. “Huio has changed this thing. I now have to either promote him or push him off side of plateau.”

“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?”

You can’t fear a Shardblade. You can’t fear a lighteyes on horseback. They kill with fear first and the sword second.

“Jasnah?” Pattern asked. “I do not think you are paying attention, Shallan. She is not very empathetic.” Shallan sighed. “You’re empathetic though!”

“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.”

“Point made. Anyway, we don’t have a lot of time left before I leave with Elhokar. I’d like to push the recruits harder, see if they’re likely to be able to swear the oaths. Any thoughts?” “Shove them off edge of plateau,” Rock said. “Those who fly, we let in.” “Any serious suggestions?” Kaladin asked.

Life was so much harder, but potentially so much more fulfilling, when you found the courage to choose.

“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.”

“You learn more from bad art than you do from good art, as your mistakes are more important than your successes.

The kind of man that made women think they preferred older men, when in reality they just preferred him.

“Your name is Lift, right?” “Right.” “And your order?” “More food.” “I meant your order of Knights Radiant. What powers do you have?” “Oh. Um . . . Edgedancer? I slip around and stuff.”

“Other people’s lives. Power is the ability to make life better or worse for the people around you.” “And yourself too, of course.” “I don’t matter.” “You should.” “Selflessness is a Vorin virtue, Wit.” “Oh, bother that. You’ve got to live life, Shallan, enjoy life. Drink of what you’re proposing to give everyone else! That’s what I do.”

That wasn’t so uncommon a feeling for him. He felt good lots of days. Trouble was, on the bad days, that was hard to remember. At those times, for some reason, he felt like he had always been in darkness, and always would be. Why was it so hard to remember? Did he have to keep slipping back down? Why couldn’t he stay up here in the sunlight, where everyone else lived?

“It’s terrible,” Wit said, stepping up beside her, “to have been hurt. It’s unfair, and awful, and horrid. But Shallan . . . it’s okay to live on.”

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 it.” Pattern hummed in appreciation of that.

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.”

“Well,” Elhokar said. “I suppose I understand why you did what you had to in taking control of the Guard. I can’t very well have you hanged as a usurper. Good work, Highmarshal.” “I . . . appreciate that?”

She used that bead’s soul as a guide—much like she used a Memory as a guide for doing a sketch—and the other beads obediently rolled together and locked into place, forming an imitation of the shield. Pattern stepped out onto it, then jumped up and down happily.

“You, sword lady!” Shallan said, pointing at Azure. “Help me over here. Adolin, you too. Kaladin, see if you can brood this place into submission.”

“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.”

“Voidspren have arrived mysteriously just west of the Nexus of Imagination. Near Marat or Tukar on your side. Hmm . . . and they have sailed up and seized the perpendicularity. She says, ahem, ‘You need but spit into a crowd, and you’ll find one, these days.’ Ha ha ha. I do not think she actually has spit.”

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

“Mmm,” Pattern said. “You know, I’ve never really felt like this before? It’s not just Kaladin, it’s all of this. And what’s happening to us.” He shook his head. “We certainly are an odd bunch.” “Yes. Seven people. Odd.”

The two Fused hovered near Adolin, out of easy reach, admiring Shallan’s illusory handiwork. He did his best to blend in, waving his harpoon around crazily. He wasn’t sure where Syl had gone, but Pattern seemed to be enjoying himself, humming pleasantly and swinging a glass branch.

Shallan leaped to her feet first. “Pattern!” she yelled, sweeping her hands forward by instinct, trying to summon the Blade. A part of her was impressed that was her reaction. Adolin would be proud. It didn’t work, of course. Pattern shouted in apology from the bridge, panicked.

Szeth laid waste to the red-eyed soldiers, who kept coming, showing no fear. Screaming, as if they thirsted for death. It was a drink that Szeth was all too good at serving.

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.

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

Mmm, Pattern said as a sword in her hand. MMMMMMM.

Wow, the sword said. “Thank you, sword-nimi,” Szeth said. He restored his Stormlight from nearby fallen spheres and gemstones. I meant that. To your right. Three more Fused were swooping down toward him.

He drew in a deep breath of Stormlight, then spotted Lift waiting on the field between the fighting illusions and the waiting parshmen. 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. Lift rolled her eyes. “You’re right, sword. He’s not very fun, is he?”

He’d once believed he had been four men in his life, but he now saw he’d grossly underestimated. He hadn’t lived as two, or four, or six men—he had lived as thousands, for each day he became someone slightly different. He hadn’t changed in one giant leap, but across a million little steps.