Oathbringer

  “You stand where you do because of a brutal determination to do what had to be done. It is because of that trail of corpses that you have the luxury to uphold some lofty, nebulous code. Well, it might make you feel better about your past, but morality is not a thing you can simply doff to put on the helm of battle, then put back on when you’re done with the slaughter.”

  He nodded his head in esteem, as if he hadn’t just rammed a sword through Dalinar’s gut.

  Dalinar spun and left Amaram holding Oathbringer. Dalinar’s stride down the corridors was so quick that his entourage had to scramble to keep up.

  He finally found his rooms. “Leave me,” he said to his guards and the bridgemen.

  They hesitated, storm them. He turned, ready to lash out, but calmed himself. “I don’t intend to stray in the tower alone. I will obey my own laws. Go.”

  They reluctantly retreated, leaving his door unguarded. He passed into his outer common room, where he’d ordered most of the furniture to be placed. Navani’s heating fabrial glowed in a corner, near a small rug and several chairs. They finally had enough Stormlight to power it.

  Drawn by the warmth, Dalinar walked up to the fabrial. He was surprised to find Taravangian sitting in one of the chairs, staring into the depths of the shining ruby that radiated heat into the room. Well, Dalinar had invited the king to use this common room when he wished.

  Dalinar wanted nothing but to be alone, and he toyed with leaving. He wasn’t sure that Taravangian had noticed him. But that warmth was so welcoming. There were few fires in the tower, and even with the walls to block wind, you always felt chilled.

  He settled into the other chair and let out a deep sigh. Taravangian didn’t address him, bless the man. Together they sat by that not-fire, staring into the depths of the gem.

  Storms, how he had failed today. There would be no coalition. He couldn’t even keep the Alethi highprinces in line.

  “Not quite like sitting by a hearth, is it?” Taravangian finally said, his voice soft.

  “No,” Dalinar agreed. “I miss the popping of the logs, the dancing of flamespren.”

  “It does have its own charm though. Subtle. You can see the Stormlight moving inside.”

  “Our own little storm,” Dalinar said. “Captured, contained, and channeled.”

  Taravangian smiled, eyes lit by the ruby’s Stormlight. “Dalinar Kholin … do you mind me asking you something? How do you know what is right?”

  “A lofty question, Your Majesty.”

  “Please, just Taravangian.”

  Dalinar nodded.

  “You have denied the Almighty,” Taravangian said.

  “I—”

  “No, no. I am not decrying you as a heretic. I do not care, Dalinar. I’ve questioned the existence of deity myself.”

  “I feel there must be a God,” Dalinar said softly. “My mind and soul rebel at the alternative.”

  “Is it not our duty, as kings, to ask questions that make the minds and souls of other men cringe?”

  “Perhaps,” Dalinar said. He studied Taravangian. The king seemed so contemplative.

  Yes, there still is some of the old Taravangian in there, Dalinar thought. We have misjudged him. He might be slow, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think.

  “I have felt warmth,” Dalinar said, “coming from a place beyond. A light I can almost see. If there is a God, it was not the Almighty, the one who called himself Honor. He was a creature. Powerful, but still merely a creature.”

  “Then how do you know what is right? What guides you?”

  Dalinar leaned forward. He thought he could see something larger within the ruby’s light. Something that moved like a fish in a bowl.

  Warmth continued to bathe him. Light.

  “ ‘On my sixtieth day,’ ” Dalinar whispered, “ ‘I passed a town whose name shall remain unspoken. Though still in lands that named me king, I was far enough from my home to go unrecognized. Not even those men who handled my face daily—in the form of my seal imprinted upon their letters of authority—would have known this humble traveler as their king.’ ”

  Taravangian looked to him, confused.

  “It’s a quote from a book,” Dalinar said. “A king long ago took a journey. His destination was this very city. Urithiru.”

  “Ah…” Taravangian said. “The Way of Kings, is it? Adrotagia has mentioned that book.”

  “Yes,” Dalinar said. “ ‘In this town, I found men bedeviled. There had been a murder. A hogman, tasked in protecting the landlord’s beasts, had been assaulted. He lived long enough, only, to whisper that three of the other hogmen had gathered together and done the crime.

  “ ‘I arrived as questions were being raised, and men interrogated. You see, there were four other hogmen in the landlord’s employ. Three of them had been responsible for the assault, and likely would have escaped suspicion had they finished their grim job. Each of the four loudly proclaimed that he was the one who had not been part of the cabal. No amount of interrogation determined the truth.’ ”

  Dalinar fell silent.

  “What happened?” Taravangian asked.

  “He doesn’t say at first,” Dalinar replied. “Throughout his book, he raises the question again and again. Three of those men were violent threats, guilty of premeditated murder. One was innocent. What do you do?”

  “Hang all four,” Taravangian whispered.

  Dalinar—surprised to hear such bloodthirst from the other man—turned. Taravangian looked sorrowful, not bloodthirsty at all.

  “The landlord’s job,” Taravangian said, “is to prevent further murders. I doubt that what the book records actually happened. It is too neat, too simple a parable. Our lives are far messier. But assuming the story did occur as claimed, and there was absolutely no way of determining who was guilty … you have to hang all four. Don’t you?”

  “What of the innocent man?”

  “One innocent dead, but three murderers stopped. Is it not the best good that can be done, and the best way to protect your people?” Taravangian rubbed his forehead. “Stormfather. I sound like a madman, don’t I? But is it not a particular madness to be charged with such decisions? It’s difficult to address such questions without revealing our own hypocrisy.”

  Hypocrite, Amaram accused Dalinar in his mind.

  He and Gavilar hadn’t used pretty justifications when they’d gone to war. They’d done as men did: they’d conquered. Only later had Gavilar started to seek validation for their actions.

  “Why not let them all go?” Dalinar said. “If you can’t prove who is guilty—if you can’t be sure—I think you should let them go.”

  “Yes … one innocent in four is too many for you. That makes sense too.”

  “No, any innocent is too many.”

  “You say that,” Taravangian said. “Many people do, but our laws will claim innocent men—for all judges are flawed, as is our knowledge. Eventually, you will execute someone who does not deserve it. This is the burden society must carry in exchange for order.”

  “I hate that,” Dalinar said softly.

  “Yes … I do too. But it’s not a matter of morality, is it? It’s a matter of thresholds. How many guilty may be punished before you’d accept one innocent casualty? A thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred? When you consider, all calculations are meaningless except one. Has more good been done than evil? If so, then the law has done its job. And so … I must hang all four men.” He paused. “And I would weep, every night, for having done it.”

  Damnation. Again, Dalinar reassessed his impression of Taravangian. The king was soft-spoken, but not slow. He was simply a man who liked to consider a great long time before committing.

  “Nohadon eventually wrote,” Dalinar said, “that the landlord took a modest approach. He imprisoned all four. Though the punishment should have been death, he mixed together the guilt and innocence, and determined that the average guilt of the four should deserve only prison.”

  “He was unwill
ing to commit,” Taravangian said. “He wasn’t seeking justice, but to assuage his own conscience.”

  “What he did was, nevertheless, another option.”

  “Does your king ever say what he would have done?” Taravangian asked. “The one who wrote the book?”

  “He said the only course was to let the Almighty guide, and let each instance be judged differently, depending on circumstances.”

  “So he too was unwilling to commit,” Taravangian said. “I would have expected more.”

  “His book was about his journey,” Dalinar said. “And his questions. I think this was one he never fully answered for himself. I wish he had.”

  They sat by the not-fire for a time before Taravangian eventually stood and rested his hand on Dalinar’s shoulder. “I understand,” he said softly, then left.

  He was a good man, the Stormfather said.

  “Nohadon?” Dalinar said.

  Yes.

  Feeling stiff, Dalinar rose from his seat and made his way through his rooms. He didn’t stop at the bedroom, though the hour was growing late, and instead made his way onto his balcony. To look out over the clouds.

  Taravangian is wrong, the Stormfather said. You are not a hypocrite, Son of Honor.

  “I am,” Dalinar said softly. “But sometimes a hypocrite is nothing more than a person who is in the process of changing.”

  The Stormfather rumbled. He didn’t like the idea of change.

  Do I go to war with the other kingdoms, Dalinar thought, and maybe save the world? Or do I sit here and pretend that I can do all this on my own?

  “Do you have any more visions of Nohadon?” Dalinar asked the Stormfather, hopeful.

  I have shown you all that was created for you to see, the Stormfather said. I can show no more.

  “Then I should like to rewatch the vision where I met Nohadon,” Dalinar said. “Though let me go fetch Navani before you begin. I want her to record what I say.”

  Would you rather I show the vision to her as well? the Stormfather asked. She could record it herself that way.

  Dalinar froze. “You can show the visions to others?”

  I was given this leave: to choose those who would best be served by the visions. He paused, then grudgingly continued. To choose a Bondsmith.

  No, he did not like the idea of being bonded, but it was part of what he’d been commanded to do.

  Dalinar barely considered that thought.

  The Stormfather could show the visions to others.

  “Anyone?” Dalinar said. “You can show them to anyone?”

  During a storm, I can approach anyone I choose, the Stormfather said. But you do not have to be in a storm, so you can join a vision in which I have placed someone else, even if you are distant.

  Storms! Dalinar bellowed a laugh.

  What have I done? the Stormfather asked.

  “You’ve just solved my problem!”

  The problem from The Way of Kings?

  “No, the greater one. I’ve been wishing for a way to meet with the other monarchs in person.” Dalinar grinned. “I think that in a coming highstorm, Queen Fen of Thaylenah is going to have a quite remarkable experience.”

  So sit back. Read, or listen, to someone who has passed between realms.

  —From Oathbringer, preface

  Veil prowled through the Breakaway market, hat pulled low, hands in her pockets. Nobody else seemed to be able to hear the beast that she did.

  Regular shipments of supplies through Jah Keved via King Taravangian had set the market bustling. Fortunately, with a third Radiant capable of working the Oathgate now, less of Shallan’s time was required.

  Spheres that glowed again, and several highstorms as proof that that would persist, had encouraged everyone. Excitement was high, trading brisk. Drink flowed freely from casks emblazoned with the royal seal of Jah Keved.

  Lurking within it all, somewhere, was a predator that only Veil could hear. She heard the thing in the silence between laughter. It was the sound of a tunnel extending into the darkness. The feel of breath on the back of your neck in a dark room.

  How could they laugh while that void watched?

  It had been a frustrating four days. Dalinar had increased patrols to almost ridiculous levels, but those soldiers weren’t watching the right way. They were too easily seen, too disruptive. Veil had set her men to a more targeted surveillance in the market.

  So far, they’d found nothing. Her team was tired, as was Shallan, who suffered from the long nights as Veil. Fortunately, Shallan wasn’t doing anything particularly useful these days. Sword training with Adolin each day—more frolicking and flirting than useful swordplay—and the occasional meeting with Dalinar where she had nothing to add but a pretty map.

  Veil though … Veil hunted the hunter. Dalinar acted like a soldier: increased patrols, strict rules. He asked his scribes to find him evidence of spren attacking people in historical records.

  He needed more than vague explanations and abstract ideas—but those were the very soul of art. If you could explain something perfectly, then you’d never need art. That was the difference between a table and a beautiful woodcutting. You could explain the table: its purpose, its shape, its nature. The woodcutting you simply had to experience.

  She ducked into a tent tavern. Did it seem busier in here than on previous nights? Yes. Dalinar’s patrols had people on edge. They were avoiding the darker, more sinister taverns in favor of ones with good crowds and bright lights.

  Gaz and Red stood beside a pile of crates, nursing drinks and wearing plain trousers and shirts, not uniforms. She hoped they weren’t too intoxicated yet. Veil pushed up to their position, crossing her arms on the boxes.

  “Nothing yet,” Gaz said with a grunt. “Same as the other nights.”

  “Not that we’re complaining,” Red added, grinning as he took a long pull on his drink. “This is the kind of soldiering I can really get behind.”

  “It’s going to happen tonight,” Veil said. “I can smell it in the air.”

  “You said that last night, Veil,” Gaz said.

  Three nights ago, a friendly game of cards had turned to violence, and one player had hit another over the head with a bottle. That often wouldn’t have been lethal, but it had hit just right and killed the poor fellow. The perpetrator—one of Ruthar’s soldiers—had been hanged the next day in the market’s central square.

  As unfortunate as the event had been, it was exactly what she’d been waiting for. A seed. An act of violence, one man striking the other. She’d mobilized her team and set them in the taverns near where the fight occurred. Watch, she’d said. Someone will get attacked with a bottle, in exactly the same way. Pick someone who looks like the man who died, and watch.

  Shallan had done sketches of the murdered man, a short fellow with long drooping mustaches. Veil had distributed them; the men took her as no more than another employee.

  Now … they waited.

  “The attack will come,” Veil said. “Who are your targets?”

  Red pointed out two men in the tent who had mustaches and were of a similar height to the dead man. Veil nodded and dropped a few low-value spheres onto the table. “Get something in you other than booze.”

  “Sure, sure,” Red said as Gaz grabbed the spheres. “But tell me, sweetness, don’t you want to stay here with us a little longer?”

  “Most men who have made a pass at me end up missing a finger or two, Red.”

  “I’d still have plenty left to satisfy you, I promise.”

  She looked back at him, then started snickering. “That was a decently good line.”

  “Thanks!” He raised his mug. “So…”

  “Sorry, not interested.”

  He sighed, but raised his mug farther before taking a pull on it.

  “Where did you come from, anyway?” Gaz said, inspecting her with his single eye.

  “Shallan kind of sucked me up along the way, like a boat pulling flotsam into its wake.”

/>   “She does that,” Red said. “You think you’re done. Living out the last light of your sphere, you know? And then suddenly, you’re an honor guard to a storming Knight Radiant, and everyone’s looking up to you.”

  Gaz grunted. “Ain’t that true. Ain’t that true.…”

  “Keep watch,” Veil said. “You know what to do if something happens.”

  They nodded. They’d send one man to the meeting place, while the other tried to tail the attacker. They knew there might be something weird about the man they chased, but she hadn’t told them everything.

  Veil walked back to the meeting point, near a dais at the center of the market, close to the well. The dais looked like it had once held some kind of official building, but all that remained was the six-foot-high foundation with steps leading up to it on four sides. Here, Aladar’s officers had set up central policing operations and disciplinary facilities.

  She watched the crowds while idly spinning her knife in her fingers. Veil liked watching people. That she shared with Shallan. It was good to know how the two of them were different, but it was also good to know what they had in common.

  Veil wasn’t a true loner. She needed people. Yes, she scammed them on occasion, but she wasn’t a thief. She was a lover of experience. She was at her best in a crowded market, watching, thinking, enjoying.

  Now Radiant … Radiant could take people or leave them. They were a tool, but also a nuisance. How could they so often act against their own best interests? The world would be a better place if they’d all simply do what Radiant said. Barring that, they could at least leave her alone.

  Veil flipped her knife up and caught it. Radiant and Veil shared efficiency. They liked seeing things done well, in the right way. They didn’t suffer fools, though Veil could laugh at them, while Radiant simply ignored them.

  Screams sounded in the market.

  Finally, Veil thought, catching her knife and spinning. She came alert, eager, drawing in Stormlight. Where?

  Vathah came barreling through the crowd, shoving aside a marketgoer. Veil ran to meet him.

  “Details!” Veil snapped.

  “It wasn’t like you said,” he said. “Follow me.”

  The two took off back the way he’d come.