The Stormlight Archive, Books 1-3: The Way of Kings, Words of Radiance, Oathbringer

by Brandon Sanderson

“So the assassin wasn’t a Radiant.” “No. But Kaladin, you have to understand. With this sword, someone can do what you can, but without the . . . checks a spren requires.”

“This sword gave the assassin power to use Lashings, but it also fed upon his Stormlight. A person who uses this will need far, far more Light...

“Lightweavers make no oaths beyond the first,” Pattern said. “You must speak truths.”

“Why did she try to kill me, Pattern?” Shallan whispered. “Mmm . . .” “It started when she found out what I could do.” She remembered it now. Her mother’s arrival, with a friend Shallan didn’t recognize, to confront her father. Her mother’s shouts, arguing with her father. Mother calling Shallan one of them. Her father barging in. Mother’s friend with a knife, the two struggling, the friend getting cut in the arm. Blood spilled on the carpet. The friend had won that fight, eventually holding Father down, pinned on the ground. Mother took the knife and came for Shallan. And then . . . And then a sword in Shallan’s hands. “He let everyone believe that he’d killed her,” Shallan whispered. “That he’d murdered his wife and her lover in a rage, when I was the one who had actually killed them. He lied to protect me.” “I know.” “That secret destroyed him. It destroyed our entire family.” “I know.” “I hate you,” she whispered, staring into her mother’s dead eyes. “I know.” Pattern buzzed softly. “Eventually, you will kill me, and you will have your revenge.”

A man stood before him, wearing a crisp black and silver uniform. He had dark brown skin like a man from the Makabaki region, but had a pale mark on his right cheek in the shape of a small hooked crescent. He held one hand behind his back, while his other hand tucked something away into his coat pocket. A fabrial of some sort? Glowing brightly?

Nale

Two of the Blades held by your people allow Regrowth. I suspect you have already seen the newly dead restored to life.”

He tossed his large sword to the ground. It skidded on stone and came to a rest before Szeth. He had not seen a sword with a metal sheath before. And who sheathed a Shardblade? And the Blade itself . . . was it black? An inch or so of it had emerged from the sheath as it slid on the rocks. Szeth swore he could see a small trail of black smoke coming off the metal. Like Stormlight, only dark. Hello, a cheerful voice said in his mind. Would you like to destroy some evil today?

Nightblood from warbreaker.

GO, BONDSMITH, the Stormfather said. LEAD YOUR DYING PEOPLE TO FAILURE. ODIUM DESTROYED THE ALMIGHTY HIMSELF. YOU ARE NOTHING TO HIM.

“Truthwatcher?” Kaladin said, glancing at Shallan. She shook her head. “I walk the winds. She weaves light. Brightlord Dalinar forges bonds. What do you do?” Renarin met Kaladin’s eyes across the room. “I see.”

“Expectation. That is the true soul of art. If you can give a man more than he expects, then he will laud you his entire life. If you can create an air of anticipation and feed it properly, you will succeed. “Conversely, if you gain a reputation for being too good, too skilled . . . beware. The better art will be in their heads, and if you give them an ounce less than they imagined, suddenly you have failed. Suddenly you are useless. A man will find a single coin in the mud and talk about it for days, but when his inheritance comes and is accounted one percent less than he expected, then he will declare himself cheated.”

“Oh,” Wit said, “I don’t mean the Almighty. Tanavast was a fine enough fellow—bought me drinks once—but he was not God.