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July 22 - July 30, 2025
“If I should die,” Dalinar said, “then I would do so having lived my life right. It is not the destination that matters, but how one arrives there.” “The Codes?” “No. The Way of Kings.” “That storming book.” “That storming book saved your life today, Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “I think I’m starting to understand what Gavilar saw in it.”
Then we die, rain it down on the stones like a highstorm’s floods. Until only I remain. I always remain.
“Well, what do men call you now?” “Many a thing, and only some of them polite. Almost all are true, unfortunately. You, however, you may call me Hoid.” “Your name?”
‘Do you not see, Traveling One? If the emperor is dead, and has been all these years, then the murders we committed are not his responsibility. They are our own.’ ”
“The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.”
“Apprentice?” “Tell him I graduate him,” Hoid said, still walking. “He’s a full Worldsinger now. Don’t let him get killed. I spent far too long trying to force some sense into that brain of his.”
Maybe the Codes weren’t just about protecting against the Parshendi. Maybe they were about something more—about giving the men commanders they could respect and rely on. About treating war with the gravity it deserved. Maybe it was about not turning a war zone into a festival. The common men had to remain on watch, vigilant. Therefore, Adolin and Dalinar did the same.
The beggar knows much that the king can only guess. And yet who draws up the codes for begging ordinances?
If we had to rely on what we knew, kings would only be of use in creating laws regarding the proper heating of tea and cushioning of thrones.’ ”
Whether we find our end in a hallowed sepulcher or a pauper’s ditch, all save the Heralds themselves must dine with the Nightwatcher.
‘And so, does the destination matter? Or is it the path we take? I declare that no accomplishment has substance nearly as great as the road used to achieve it. We are not creatures of destinations. It is the journey that shapes us. Our callused feet, our backs strong from carrying the weight of our travels, our eyes open with the fresh delight of experiences lived. “ ‘In the end, I must proclaim that no good can be achieved of false means. For the substance of our existence is not in the achievement, but in the method. The Monarch must understand this; he must not become so focused on what he
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“The finest defense of character is correct action. Acquaint yourself with virtue, and you can expect proper treatment from those around you.”
Dalinar didn’t buy the arguments about a ‘good’ fight being a close one. When you won, it was always better to win quickly and with extreme advantage.
Strength does not make one capable of rule; it makes one capable of service.”
You’re the only man of letters I know of who’s still alive.” A man of letters? This was an odd time. “I could write it, then.”
“Stormfather!” Dalinar said. “Something’s going on,” she said. “Something bigger than our war here, something bigger than Gavilar. Have you heard of the twisted things men say when they die? Most ignore it, but surgeons are talking. And stormwardens whisper that the highstorms are growing more powerful.”
Blood of my fathers, he thought, why can’t these things ever be simple? And yet, in direct contrast with his thoughts, he felt as if the entire world had somehow become more right for having gone wrong.
“This thing you will try, is dangerous?” “Perhaps.” “Can I help?” “I’m afraid not, my friend. But it strengthens me to hear you ask.”
a spontaneous round of cheering rose up from the other crews. “That’s new,” Teft said from Kaladin’s left. “Guess they finally realized what we are,” Kaladin said. “And what’s that?” Kaladin settled the bridge onto his shoulders. “We’re their champions. Bridge forward!”
He felt sick. This wasn’t beautiful. This wasn’t glorious. This wasn’t strength, power, or life. This was revolting, repellent, and ghastly.
“No. We fight here because we understand. The end is the same. It is the path that separates men. When we taste that end, we will do so with our heads held high, eyes to the sun.”
He raised a trembling hand to his head, feeling the brand there, wet with his sweat. “I owe you nothing, Kholin.” And his father’s voice seemed to whisper a reply. Somebody has to start, son. Somebody has to step forward and do what is right, because it is right. If nobody starts, then others cannot follow.
“We have to go back,” Kaladin said softly. “Storm it, we have to go back.” He turned to the members of Bridge Four. One by one, they nodded. Men who had been the dregs of the army just months before—men who had once cared for nothing but their own skins—took deep breaths, tossed away thoughts for their own safety, and nodded. They would follow him.
He seemed regretful. “Gotta do what you can to stay alive, son. Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can. Remember that, if you live.” With that, he jogged off. Kaladin looked down. Why couldn’t I protect him?
A trickle of Stormlight closed the wounds on his arm. He smiled, spear held before him. It was as familiar as the body of a lover long lost. THE WORDS, a voice said, urgent, as if directly into his mind. In that moment, Kaladin was amazed to realize that he knew them, though they’d never been told to him. “I will protect those who cannot protect themselves,” he whispered. The Second Ideal of the Knights Radiant.
It was more than the Stormlight. Teft had only a fragmentary recollection of the things his family had tried to teach him, but those memories all agreed. Stormlight did not grant skill. It could not make a man into something he was not. It enhanced, it strengthened, it invigorated. It perfected.
That little force of bridgemen held the bridgehead, fighting desperately against the Parshendi who were trying to force them back. It was the most amazing, most glorious thing Dalinar had ever seen.
What was a prayer, if not creation? Making something where nothing existed. Creating a wish out of despair, a plea out of anguish. Bowing one’s back before the Almighty, and forming humility from the empty pride of a human life. Something from nothing. True creation.
Dalinar took one step forward, then drove his Blade point-first into the middle of the blackened glyph on the stone. He took a step back. “For the bridgemen,” he said. Sadeas blinked. Muttering voices fell silent, and the people on the field seemed too stunned, even, to breathe. “What?” Sadeas asked. “The Blade,” Dalinar said, firm voice carrying in the air. “In exchange for your bridgemen. All of them. Every one you have in camp. They become mine, to do with as I please, never to be touched by you again. In exchange, you get the sword.”
“I don’t know what has been done to you. I can only guess what your life has been like. But know this. You will not be bridgemen in my camp, nor will you be slaves.”
“What is a man’s life worth?” Dalinar asked softly. “The slavemasters say one is worth about two emerald broams,” Kaladin said, frowning. “And what do you say?” “A life is priceless,” he said immediately, quoting his father. Dalinar smiled, wrinkle lines extending from the corners of his eyes. “Coincidentally, that is the exact value of a Shardblade. So today, you and your men sacrificed to buy me twenty-six hundred priceless lives. And all I had to repay you with was a single priceless sword. I call that a bargain.”
“I have been treating the other highprinces and their lighteyes like adults. An adult can take a principle and adapt it to his needs. But we’re not ready for that yet. We’re children. And when you’re teaching a child, you require him to do what is right until he grows old enough to make his own choices.
“What am I?” Shallan whispered. “Truthfully?” It was a day for confrontation. She felt strangely strong, steady. Time to speak it. “I’m a murderer. I killed my father.”
“Idiot girl!” Jasnah repeated. “You have no idea how dangerous that was. Visiting Shadesmar with only a single dim sphere? Idiot!”
“You wanted to be part of what I’m doing? Well, you’ll need to read this.” Jasnah looked down at the notes. “It’s about the Voidbringers.”
Would Szeth never face a foe strong enough to kill him?
“We didn’t destroy the Voidbringers,” Jasnah said from behind, her voice haunted. “We enslaved them.”
“This isn’t just about you either,” the figure said, raising his hand into the air. A light winked out in the sky, one that Dalinar hadn’t realized was there. Then another winked out as well. The sun seemed to be growing dimmer. “It’s about all of them,” the figure said. “I should have realized he’d come for me.”
“Someone must lead them.” “I will do it,” Dalinar said. The words just came out. “Someone must unite them.” “I will do it.” “Someone must protect them.” “I will do it!” The figure was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a clear, crisp voice. “Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination. Speak again the ancient oaths and return to men the Shards they once bore.”
“Who are you?” Dalinar asked again. And yet, he thought he knew. “I am … I was … God. The one you call the Almighty, the creator of mankind.” The figure closed his eyes. “And now I am dead. Odium has killed me. I am sorry.”
“Aesthetic genius,” Wit said, “invention, acumen, creativity. Noble ideals indeed. Most men would pick one of those, if given the choice, and name them the greatest of talents.” He plucked a string. “What beautiful liars we are.”
“So it’s not the beauty itself we admire. It’s not the force of intellect. It’s not invention, aesthetics, or capacity itself. The greatest talent that we think a man can have?” He plucked one final string. “Seems to me that it must be nothing more than novelty.”
The man who had named himself a Herald did not move. “What is it we value?” Wit whispered. “Innovation. Originality. Novelty. But most importantly … timeliness. I fear you may be too late, my confused, unfortunate friend.”
