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“It’s an affidavit,” Navani said, amused. “That the Oathgate is not functional, signed by imperial architects and stormwardens.” She read further. “Oh, this is delightful. Only the Azish would assume you’d want certification that something is broken.” “Notably,” Kalami added, “it only certifies that the device ‘does not function as a portal.’ But of course it would not, not unless a Radiant were to visit and work it. This affidavit basically says that when turned off, the device doesn’t work.”
“Inappropriate?” Pattern said. “Such as . . . dividing by zero?”
Kaladin crept through the rains, sidling in a wet uniform across the rocks until he was able to peek through the trees at the Voidbringers. Monstrous terrors from the mythological past, enemies of all that was right and good. Destroyers who had laid waste to civilization countless times. They were playing cards.
The Alethi instead preferred to let the ardents deal with the Almighty, like he was some annoying parlor guest who could be safely distracted by servants offering a particularly tasty tea.
“It’s wrong, sir. It’s imitating an oath without the commitment. Every major religion agrees to this, except the Reshi, I suppose. But they’re pagans even among pagans.”
“Yeah,” Lopen added. “Drehy likes other guys. That’s like . . . he wants to be even less around women than the rest of us. It’s the opposite of feminine. He is, you could say, extra manly.”
“It was . . . wrong,” Adolin finally said. “Haunting. A nightmare made manifest.” “Kind of like my face?” Kaladin asked. Adolin glanced at him, then grinned. “Fortunately, Shallan covered it up for you with that illusion.”
Interesting. Alethi parshmen had acted Alethi—immediately gathering for war. The Thaylen parshmen had taken to the seas. And the Azish parshmen . . . well, they’d done something quintessentially Azish. They had lodged a complaint with the government.
“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.”
“People learn things from art.” “Blasphemy! Art is not art if it has a function.”
Dalinar took a chug, then handed the bottle back to Ahu. “How are the voices?” “Soft, today. They chant about ripping me apart. Eating my flesh. Drinking my blood.” “Pleasant.”
“I had a splinter once,” Shallan noted. “It eventually got out of hand.” “You . . . you did not just say that.”
“There was a name . . . railing? Deck guard? No, wale. It’s called a wale.” She grinned. “I don’t really like how it feels to sit against this wale, but I’m sure I’ll eventually get over it.” He groaned softly. “Really?”
“Actually,” Nohadon said, “it’s a shopping list. I’ll be cooking Shin loaf bread today, if I can get the ingredients. It always breaks people’s brains. Grain was not meant to be so fluffy.”
The captain sighed. “The honorspren were created by Honor himself, many thousands of years ago. You call him the Almighty, and . . . I’m afraid he’s dead.” “Which makes sense, as it’s pretty much the only excuse I would have accepted.” “That wasn’t levity, human,” Notum said. “Your god is dead.” “Not my god. But please continue.”
“Oh! Yeah, I’ve got one a those.” She thrust her hand to the side. Mist formed into a small, glittering Shardblade. . . . Or no, it was just a pole. A silver pole with a rudimentary crossguard. Lift shrugged. “Wyndle doesn’t like hurting people.” Doesn’t like . . . Dalinar blinked. What kind of world did he live in where swords didn’t like hurting people?
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.”
