Oathbringer

  She suffered it, then was deposited on a throne while scribes lined up and gave her piles of keteks and glyphwards. Noura delivered a box of incense from the Azish emperor, along with a dried fish from Lift. A Marati rug came from Queen Fen. Dried fruit. Perfumes.

  A pair of boots. Ka seemed embarrassed as she opened the box and revealed them as a gift from Kaladin and Bridge Four, but Shallan just laughed. It was a much-needed moment of relief in the stress of the day.

  She got gifts from professional organizations, family members, and one from each highprince except for Ialai—who had left Urithiru in disgrace. Though Shallan was grateful, she found herself trying to vanish into her dress. So many things that she didn’t want—most of all, this attention.

  Well, you’re marrying an Alethi highprince, she thought as she squirmed on her wedding throne. What did you expect? At least she wasn’t going to end up as queen.

  Finally—after ardents arrived and pronounced blessings, anointings, and prayers—she was shuffled off into a little room by herself with a brazier, a window, and a mirror. The table held implements for her to paint a last prayer, so that she could meditate. Somewhere, Adolin was suffering gifts from the men. Probably swords. Lots and lots of swords.

  The door closed, and Shallan stood facing herself in the mirror. Her sapphire gown was of an ancient style, with twin drooping sleeves that went far beyond her hands. Small rubies woven into the embroidery glowed with a complementary light. A golden vest draped over the shoulders, matched by the ornate headdress woven into her braids.

  She wanted to shrink from it.

  “Mmm…” Pattern said. “This is a good you, Shallan.”

  A good me. She breathed out. Veil formed on one side of the room, lounging against the wall. Radiant appeared near the table, tapping it with one finger, reminding her that she really should write a prayer—for tradition’s sake, if nothing else.

  “We’re decided upon this,” Shallan said.

  “A worthy union,” Radiant said.

  “He’s good for you, I suppose,” Veil said. “Plus he knows his wine. We could do far worse.”

  “But not much better,” Radiant said, giving Veil a pointed look. “This is good, Shallan.”

  “A celebration,” Veil said. “A celebration of you.”

  “It’s okay for me to enjoy this,” Shallan said, as if discovering something precious. “It’s all right to celebrate. Even if things are terrible in the world, it’s all right.” She smiled. “I … I deserve this.”

  Veil and Radiant faded. When Shallan looked back into the mirror, she didn’t feel embarrassed by the attention any longer. It was all right.

  It was all right to be happy.

  She painted her glyphward, but a knock at the door interrupted burning it. What? The time wasn’t up.

  She turned with a grin. “Come in.” Adolin had probably found an excuse to come steal a kiss.…

  The door opened.

  Revealing three young men in worn clothing. Balat, tallest and round faced. Wikim, still gaunt, with skin as pale as Shallan’s. Jushu, thinner than she recalled, but still plump. All three were somehow younger than she pictured them in her head, even though it had been over a year since she’d seen them.

  Her brothers.

  Shallan cried out in delight, throwing herself toward them, passing through a burst of joyspren like blue petals. She tried to embrace all three at once, heedless of what it might do to her carefully arranged dress. “How? When? What happened?”

  “It was a long trek across Jah Keved,” Nan Balat said. “Shallan … we didn’t hear anything until we were transported here through that device. You’re getting married? The son of the Blackthorn?”

  So much to tell them. Storms, these tears were going to ruin her makeup. She’d have to go through it all again.

  She found herself too overwhelmed to talk, to explain. She pulled them tight again, and Wikim even complained about the affection, as he always had. She hadn’t seen them in how long, and he still complained? That made her even more giddy, for some reason.

  Navani appeared behind them, looking over Balat’s shoulder. “I will call for a delay of the festivities.”

  “No!” Shallan said.

  No. She was going to enjoy this. She pulled her brothers tight, one after another. “I’ll explain after the wedding. So much to explain…”

  Balat, as she hugged him, handed her a slip of paper. “He said to give you this.”

  “Who?”

  “He said you’d know.” Balat still had the haunted look that had always shadowed him. “What is going on? How do you know people like that?”

  She unfolded the letter.

  It was from Mraize.

  “Brightness,” Shallan said to Navani, “will you provide my brothers with seats of honor?”

  “Of course.”

  Navani drew the three boys away, joining Eylita, who had been waiting. Storms. Her brothers were back. They were alive.

  A wedding gift, Mraize’s note read.

  In payment for work done. You will find that I do keep my promises. I apologize for the delay.

  I congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, little knife. You have done well. You have frightened away the Unmade who was in this tower, and in payment, we forgive a part of your debt owed from the destruction of our Soulcaster.

  Your next mission is equally important. One of the Unmade seems willing to break from Odium. Our good and that of your Radiant friends align. You will find this Unmade, and you will persuade it to serve the Ghostbloods. Barring that, you will capture it and deliver it to us.

  Details will be forthcoming.

  She lowered the note, then burned it in the brazier meant for her prayer. So Mraize knew about Sja-anat, did he? Did he know about Renarin accidentally bonding one of her spren? Or was that a secret Shallan actually had over the Ghostbloods?

  Well, she could worry about him later. Today, she had a wedding to attend. She pulled open the door and strode out. Toward a celebration.

  Of being herself.

  * * *

  Dalinar entered his rooms, full of food from the wedding feast, glad to finally get some peace after the celebrations. The assassin settled down outside his door to wait, as was becoming his custom. Szeth was the only guard Dalinar had for the moment, as Rial and his other bodyguards were all in Bridge Thirteen—and that whole crew had gone up as squires to Teft.

  Dalinar smiled to himself, then walked to his desk and settled down. A Shardblade hung on the wall before him. A temporary place; he’d find it a home. For now, he wanted it near. It was time.

  He picked up the pen and started writing.

  Three weeks had seen him progress far, though he still felt uncertain as he scratched out each letter. He worked at it a good hour before Navani returned, slipping into their rooms. She bustled over, opening the balcony doors, letting in the light of a setting sun.

  A son married. Adolin was not the man Dalinar had thought he was—but then, couldn’t he forgive someone for that? He dipped his pen and continued writing. Navani walked up and placed hands on his shoulders, looking at his paper.

  “Here,” Dalinar said, handing it to her. “Tell me what you think. I’ve run into a problem.”

  As she read, he resisted the urge to shift nervously. This was as bad as his first day with the swordmasters. Navani nodded to herself, then smiled at him, dipping her pen and making a few notes on his page to explain mistakes. “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know how to write ‘I.’ ”

  “I showed you. Here, did you forget?” She wrote out a few letters. “No, wait. You used this several times in this piece, so you obviously know how to write it.”

  “You said pronouns have a gender in the women’s formal script, and I realized that the one you taught me says ‘I, being female.’ ”

  Navani hesitated, pen in her fingers. “Oh. Right. I guess … I mean … Huh. I don’t think there is a masculine ‘I.’ You can use t
he neuter, like an ardent. Or … no, here. I’m an idiot.” She wrote some letters. “This is what you use when writing a quote by a man in the first person.”

  Dalinar rubbed his chin. Most words in the script were the same as the ones from spoken conversation, but small additions—that you wouldn’t read out loud—changed the context. And that didn’t even count the undertext—the writer’s hidden commentary. Navani had explained, with some embarrassment, that that was never read to a man requesting a reading.

  We took Shardblades from the women, he thought, glancing at the one hung on the wall above his desk. And they seized literacy from us. Who got the better deal, I wonder?

  “Have you thought,” Navani said, “about how Kadash and the ardents will respond to you learning to read?”

  “I’ve been excommunicated already. There’s not much more they could do.”

  “They could leave.”

  “No,” Dalinar said. “I don’t think they will. I actually think … I think I might be getting through to Kadash. Did you see him at the wedding? He’s been reading what the ancient theologians wrote, trying to find justification for modern Vorinism. He doesn’t want to believe me, but soon he won’t be able to help it.”

  Navani seemed skeptical.

  “Here,” Dalinar said. “How do I emphasize a word?”

  “These marks here, above and below a word you want to stress.”

  He nodded in thanks, dipped his pen, then rewrote what he’d given to Navani, substituting the proper changes.

  The most important words a man can say are, “I will do better.” These are not the most important words any man can say. I am a man, and they are what I needed to say.

  The ancient code of the Knights Radiant says “journey before destination.” Some may call it a simple platitude, but it is far more. A journey will have pain and failure. It is not only the steps forward that we must accept. It is the stumbles. The trials. The knowledge that we will fail. That we will hurt those around us.

  But if we stop, if we accept the person we are when we fall, the journey ends. That failure becomes our destination.

  To love the journey is to accept no such end. I have found, through painful experience, that the most important step a person can take is always the next one.

  I’m certain some will feel threatened by this record. Some few may feel liberated. Most will simply feel that it should not exist.

  I needed to write it anyway.

  He sat back, pleased. It seemed that in opening this doorway, he had entered a new world. He could read The Way of Kings. He could read his niece’s biography of Gavilar. He could write down his own orders for men to follow.

  Most importantly, he could write this. His thoughts. His pains. His life. He looked to the side, where Navani had placed the handful of blank pages he’d asked her to bring. Too few. Far, far too few.

  He dipped his pen again. “Would you close the balcony doors again, gemheart?” he asked her. “The sunlight is distracting me from the other light.”

  “Other light?”

  He nodded absently. What next? He looked up again at the familiar Shardblade. Wide like him—and thick, also like him, at times—with a hook shape at the end. This was the best mark of both his honor and his disgrace. It should have belonged to Rock, the Horneater bridgeman. He’d killed Amaram and won it, along with two other Shards.

  Rock had insisted that Dalinar take Oathbringer back. A debt repaid, the Windrunner had explained. Reluctantly, Dalinar had accepted, handling the Shardblade only through cloth.

  As Navani shut the balcony doors, he closed his eyes and felt the warmth of a distant, unseen light. Then he smiled, and—with a hand still unsteady, like the legs of a child taking his first steps—he took another page and wrote a title for the book.

  Oathbringer, My Glory and My Shame.

  Written by the hand of Dalinar Kholin.

  “All great art is hated,” Wit said.

  He shuffled in line—along with a couple hundred other people—one dreary step.

  “It is obscenely difficult—if not impossible—to make something that nobody hates,” Wit continued. “Conversely, it is incredibly easy—if not expected—to make something that nobody loves.”

  Weeks after the fall of Kholinar, the place still smelled like smoke. Though the city’s new masters had moved tens of thousands of humans out to work farms, complete resettlement would take months, if not years.

  Wit poked the man in front of him in the shoulder. “This makes sense, if you think about it. Art is about emotion, examination, and going places people have never gone before to discover and investigate new things. The only way to create something that nobody hates is to ensure that it can’t be loved either. Remove enough spice from soup, and you’ll just end up with water.”

  The brutish man in front eyed him, then turned back to the line.

  “Human taste is as varied as human fingerprints,” Wit said. “Nobody will like everything, everybody dislikes something, someone loves that thing you hate—but at least being hated is better than nothing. To risk metaphor, a grand painting is often about contrast: brightest brights, darkest darks. Not grey mush. That a thing is hated is not proof that it’s great art, but the lack of hatred is certainly proof that it is not.”

  They shuffled forward another step.

  He poked the man in the shoulder again. “And so, dear sir, when I say that you are the very embodiment of repulsiveness, I am merely looking to improve my art. You look so ugly, it seems that someone tried—and failed—to get the warts off your face through aggressive application of sandpaper. You are less a human being, and more a lump of dung with aspirations. If someone took a stick and beat you repeatedly, it could only serve to improve your features.

  “Your face defies description, but only because it nauseated all the poets. You are what parents use to frighten children into obedience. I’d tell you to put a sack over your head, but think of the poor sack! Theologians use you as proof that God exists, because such hideousness can only be intentional.”

  The man didn’t respond. Wit poked him again, and he muttered something in Thaylen.

  “You … don’t speak Alethi, do you?” Wit asked. “Of course you don’t.” Figured.

  Well, repeating all that in Thaylen would be monotonous. So Wit cut in front of the man in line. This finally provoked a response. The beefy man grabbed Wit and spun him around, then punched him right in the face.

  Wit fell backward onto the stone ground. The line continued its shuffling motion, the occupants refusing to look at him. Cautiously, he prodded at his mouth. Yes … it seemed …

  One of his teeth popped out. “Success!” he said in Thaylen, speaking with a faint lisp. “Thank you, dear man. I’m glad you appreciate my performance art, accomplished by cutting in front of you.”

  Wit flicked the tooth aside and stood up, starting to dust off his clothing. He then stopped himself. After all, he’d worked hard to place that dust. He shoved hands in the pockets of his ragged brown coat, then slouched his way through an alley. He passed groaning humans crying for deliverance, for mercy. He absorbed that, letting it reflect in him.

  Not a mask he put on. Real sorrow. Real pain. Weeping echoed around him as he moved into the section of town nearest the palace. Only the most desperate or the most broken dared remain here, nearest the invaders and their growing seat of power.

  He rounded to the courtyard out in front of the steps leading up. Was it time for his big performance? Strangely, he found himself reluctant. Once he walked up those steps, he was committing to leave the city.

  He’d found a much better audience among these poor people than he had among the lighteyes of Alethkar. He’d enjoyed his time here. On the other hand, if Rayse learned that Wit was in the city, he’d order his forces to level it—and would consider that a cheap price for even the slimmest chance of ending him.

  Wit lingered, then moved through the courtyard, speaking softly with several of the people he’d c
ome to know over the weeks. He eventually squatted next to Kheni, who still rocked her empty cradle, staring with haunted eyes across the square.

  “The question becomes,” he whispered to her, “how many people need to love a piece of art to make it worthwhile? If you’re inevitably going to inspire hate, then how much enjoyment is needed to balance out the risk?”

  She didn’t respond. Her husband, as usual, hovered nearby.

  “How’s my hair?” Wit asked Kheni. “Or lack thereof?”

  Again, no response.

  “The missing tooth is a new addition,” Wit said, poking at the hole. “I think it will add that special touch.”

  He had a few days, with his healing repressed, until the tooth grew back. The right concoction had made him lose his hair in patches.

  “Should I put an eye out?”

  Kheni looked at him, incredulous.

  So you are listening. He patted her on the shoulder. One more. One more, then I go.

  “Wait here,” he told her, then went walking along an alley to the north. He scooped up some rags—the remnants of a spren costume. He didn’t see many of those around anymore. He took a cord from his pocket and twisted it around the rags.

  Nearby, several buildings had fallen to the thunderclast’s attacks. He felt life from one, and when he drew close, a dirty little face poked out from some rubble.

  He smiled at the little girl.

  “Your teeth look funny today,” she said to him.

  “I take exception to that, as the funny part is not the teeth, but the lack of tooth.” He held out his hand to her, but she ducked back in.

  “I can’t leave Mama,” she whispered.

  “I understand,” Wit said. He took the rags and cord he’d worked with earlier, forming them into the shape of a little doll. “The answer to the question has been bothering me for some time.”

  The little face poked out again, looking at the doll. “The question?”