Oathbringer

  “Go back, then along the wall slowly to the right,” she said, infusing him.

  He did so, sliding under the door. A sound she’d created rose from him as he moved away, imitating the captainlord’s voice from above, calling for the guards. It wasn’t perfect, as she hadn’t sketched the man, but it seemed to work as she heard booted feet move off.

  She slipped out, and found herself at the base of the rise that the palace sat upon, a cliff of some twenty feet above her. The guards were distracted, walking to her right, so Veil slipped onto a street nearby, then ran for a short time, thankful to finally have a chance to work off some of her energy.

  She collapsed in the shadow of a hollow building, with the windows broken open and the door missing. Pattern scooted along the ground nearby, joining her. The guards didn’t seem to have noticed her.

  “Go find Kaladin,” she said to Pattern. “Bring him here. Warn him that soldiers might be watching him from the palace, and they might come for him.”

  “Mmmm.” Pattern slid away from her. She huddled against herself, back to a stone wall, her coat still covered in blood. After a nerve-racking wait, Kaladin stepped onto the street, then hurried up to her. “Storms!” he said, kneeling beside her. Pattern slipped off his coat, humming happily. “Shallan, what happened to you?”

  “Well,” she said, “as a connoisseur of things that have killed me, I think a sword happened.”

  “Shallan…”

  “The evil force that rules the palace did not think highly of someone coming with a letter from the king.” She smiled at him. “You could say, um, it made that point quite clear.”

  Smile. I need you to smile.

  I need what happened to be all right. Something that can simply roll off me.

  Please.

  “Well…” Kaladin said. “I’m glad we … took a stab at this anyway.” He smiled.

  It was all right. Just another day, another infiltration. He helped her to her feet, then looked to check on her wound, and she slapped his hand. The cut was not in an appropriate location.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Surgeon’s instincts. Back to the hideout?”

  “Yes, please,” she said. “I’d rather not be killed again today. It’s quite draining.…”

  The disagreements between the Skybreakers and the Windrunners have grown to tragic levels. I plead with any who hear this to recognize you are not so different as you think.

  —From drawer 27-19, topaz

  Dalinar reached into the dark stone shaft where he’d hidden the assassin’s Honorblade. It was still there; he felt the hilt under the lip of stone.

  He expected to feel more upon touching it. Power? A tingling? This was a weapon of Heralds, a thing so ancient that common Shardblades were young by comparison. Yet, as he slipped it free and stood up, the only thing he felt was his own anger. This was the weapon of the assassin who had killed his brother. The weapon used to terrorize Roshar, murder the lords of Jah Keved and Azir.

  It was shortsighted of him to see such an ancient weapon merely as the sword of the Assassin in White. He stepped out into the larger room next door, then regarded the sword in the light of the spheres he had placed on a stone slab there. Sinuous and elegant, this was the weapon of a king. Jezerezeh’Elin.

  “There are some who assumed you were one of the Heralds,” Dalinar noted to the Stormfather, who rumbled in the back of his mind. “Jezerezeh, Herald of Kings, Father of Storms.”

  Men say many foolish things, the Stormfather replied. Some name Kelek Stormfather, others Jezrien. I am neither of them.

  “But Jezerezeh was a Windrunner.”

  He was before Windrunners. He was Jezrien, a man whose powers bore no name. They were simply him. The Windrunners were named only after Ishar founded the orders.

  “Ishi’Elin,” Dalinar said. “Herald of Luck.”

  Or of mysteries, the Stormfather said, or of priests. Or of a dozen other things, as men dubbed him. He is now as mad as the rest. More, perhaps.

  Dalinar lowered the Honorblade, looking eastward toward the Origin. Even through the stone walls, he knew that was where to find the Stormfather. “Do you know where they are?”

  I have told you. I do not see all. Only glimpses in the storms.

  “Do you know where they are?”

  Only one, he said with a rumble. I … have seen Ishar. He curses me at night, even as he names himself a god. He seeks death. His own. Perhaps that of every man.

  It clicked. “Stormfather!”

  Yes?

  “Oh. Uh, that was a curse.… Never mind. Tezim, the god-priest of Tukar? Is it him? Ishi, Herald of Luck, is the man who has been waging war against Emul?”

  Yes.

  “For what purpose?”

  He is insane. Do not look for meaning in his actions.

  “When … when were you thinking of informing me of this?”

  When you asked. When else would I speak of it?

  “When you thought of it!” Dalinar said. “You know things that are important, Stormfather!”

  He just rumbled his reply.

  Dalinar took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Spren did not think like men. Anger would not change what the Stormfather told him. But what would?

  “Did you know about my powers?” Dalinar asked. “Did you know that I could heal the stone?”

  I knew it once you did it, the Stormfather said. Yes, once you did it, I always knew.

  “Do you know what else I can do?”

  Of course. Once you discover it, I will know.

  “But—”

  Your powers will come when you are ready for them, not before, the Stormfather said. They cannot be hurried or forced.

  But do not look toward the powers of others, even those who share your Surges. Their lot is not yours, and their powers are small, petty things. What you did in reknitting those statues was a mere trifle, a party trick.

  Yours is the power Ishar once held. Before he was Herald of Luck, they called him Binder of Gods. He was the founder of the Oathpact. No Radiant is capable of more than you. Yours is the power of Connection, of joining men and worlds, minds and souls. Your Surges are the greatest of all, though they will be impotent if you seek to wield them for mere battle.

  The words washed over Dalinar, seeming to press him backward with their force. When the Stormfather was done, Dalinar found himself out of breath, a headache coming on. He reflexively drew in Stormlight to heal it, and the small chamber dimmed. That stopped the pain, but it did nothing for his cold sweat.

  “Are there others like me out there?” he finally asked.

  Not right now, and there can ever be only three. One for each of us.

  “Three?” Dalinar said. “Three spren who make Bondsmiths. You … and Cultivation are two?”

  The Stormfather actually laughed. You would have a difficult time making her your spren. I should like to see you try it.

  “Then who?”

  My siblings need not concern you.

  They seemed of compelling concern, but Dalinar had learned when to avoid pressing an issue. That would only cause the spren to withdraw.

  Dalinar took the Honorblade in a firm grip, then collected his spheres, one of which had gone dun. “Have I ever asked how you renew these?” Dalinar held up the sphere, inspecting the ruby at the center. He’d seen these loose, and had always been surprised by how small they actually were. The glass made them look far larger.

  Honor’s power, during a storm, is concentrated in one place, the Stormfather said. It pierces all three realms and brings Physical, Cognitive, and Spiritual together momentarily in one. The gemstones, exposed to the wonder of the Spiritual Realm, are lit by the infinite power there.

  “Could you renew this sphere, now?”

  I … do not know. He sounded intrigued. Hold it forth.

  Dalinar did so, and felt something happen, a tugging on his insides, like the Stormfather straining against their bond. The sphere remained dun.

  It is
not possible, the Stormfather said. I am close to you, but the power is not—it still rides the storm.

  That was far more than he usually got from the Stormfather. He hoped he could remember it exactly to repeat to Navani—of course, if the Stormfather was listening, he’d correct Dalinar’s mistakes. The Stormfather hated to be misquoted.

  Dalinar stepped out into the hallway to meet Bridge Four. He held up the Honorblade—a powerful, world-changing artifact. But, like the Shardblades modeled after it, the weapon was useless if he left it hidden.

  “This,” he said to the men of Bridge Four, “is the Honorblade your captain recovered.”

  The twenty-odd men gathered closer, their curious faces reflecting in the metal.

  “Anyone who holds this,” Dalinar said, “will immediately gain the powers of a Windrunner. Your captain’s absence is interrupting your training. Perhaps this, though only one can use it at a time, can mitigate that.”

  They gaped at the weapon, so Dalinar held it out toward Kaladin’s first lieutenant—the bearded older bridgeman named Teft.

  Teft reached out, then drew his hand back. “Leyten,” he barked. “You’re our storming armorer. You take the thing.”

  “Me?” a stocky bridgeman said. “That’s not armor.”

  “Close enough.”

  “I…”

  “Airsick lowlanders,” Rock the Horneater said, shoving forward and taking the weapon. “Your soup is cold. That is idiom for ‘You are all stupid.’ ” The Horneater hefted it, curious, and his eyes bled to a glassy blue.

  “Rock?” Teft asked. “You? Holding a weapon?”

  “I am not going to swing this thing,” Rock said, rolling his eyes. “I will keep him safe. This is all.”

  “It’s a Shardblade,” Dalinar warned. “You’ve trained on those, correct?”

  “We have, sir,” Teft said. “Doesn’t mean one of this lot won’t storming cut their own feet off. But … I suppose we can use this to heal it if they do. Sigzil, come up with a rotation so we can practice.”

  Heal … Dalinar felt stupid. He’d missed it again. Anyone holding this Blade had the powers of a Radiant. Did that mean they could use Stormlight to heal themselves? If so, that might be a valuable extra use of the weapon.

  “Don’t let anyone know you have this,” Dalinar told them. “I assume you can learn to dismiss and summon it like an ordinary Shardblade. See what you can discover, then report to me.”

  “We’ll put it to good use, sir,” Teft promised.

  “Good.” The clock fabrial on his forearm dinged, and Dalinar stifled a sigh. She’d learned to make it ding? “If you’ll all excuse me, I have to prepare for an appointment with an emperor a thousand miles away.”

  * * *

  A short time later, Dalinar stood on his balcony. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared out toward the Oathgate transport platforms.

  “I did a great deal of business with the Azish when I was younger,” Fen said from behind him. “This might not work, but it is a much better plan than traditional Alethi strutting.”

  “I don’t like him going alone,” Navani replied.

  “By all reports,” Fen said dryly, “he got stabbed through the chest, lifted a stone roughly the weight of ten men, then started putting my city back together one rock at a time. I think he’ll be fine.”

  “No amount of Stormlight will help if they simply imprison him,” Navani said. “We could be sending him to become a hostage.”

  They were arguing for his benefit. He had to understand the risks. And he did. He walked over to give Navani a light kiss. He smiled at her, then turned and extended his hand toward Fen, who gave him a paper packet, like a large envelope.

  “This is it, then?” he asked. “All three are in here?”

  “They’re marked with appropriate glyphs,” Navani said. “And the spanreed is inside too. They’ve promised to speak in Alethi during the meeting—you won’t have an interpreter from our side, as you insist on going alone.”

  “I do,” Dalinar said, starting toward the door. “I want to try Fen’s suggestion.”

  Navani quickly rose and took his arm with her freehand.

  “I assure you,” he said. “I will be safe.”

  “No you won’t. But this is no different from a hundred other times you’ve ridden off to battle. Here.” She handed him a small box sheathed in cloth.

  “Fabrial?”

  “Lunch,” she said. “There’s no telling when those people will feed you.”

  She’d wrapped it in a glyphward. Dalinar cocked his eyebrow at it, and she shrugged. Can’t hurt, right? that seemed to say. She took him in an embrace, held on an extra moment—more than another Alethi might—then stepped back. “We’ll be watching the spanreed. One hour with no communication, and we’re coming for you.”

  He nodded. He couldn’t write to them of course, but he could flip the reed on and off to send signals, an old general’s trick for when you lacked a scribe.

  A short time later, he strode out onto Urithiru’s western plateau. Crossing it on his way to the Oathgate, he passed men marching in formations, sergeants shouting orders, runners carrying messages. Two of his Shardbearers—Rust and Serugiadis, men who had the Plate only—practiced with massive Shardbows, launching thick arrows hundreds of yards toward a large straw target that Kaladin had placed for them on a nearby mountainside.

  A significant number of the common soldiers sat around holding spheres, staring at them intently. Word had spread that Bridge Four was recruiting. He’d lately noticed numerous men in the hallways holding a sphere “for luck.” Dalinar even passed a group out here who were talking about swallowing spheres.

  The Stormfather rumbled with displeasure. They go about this backward. Foolish men. They can’t draw in Light and become Radiant; they first must be approaching Radiance, and look for Light to fulfill the promise.

  Dalinar barked at the men to get back to training, and to not swallow any spheres. They obeyed with a scrambling rush, shocked to find the Blackthorn looming over them. He shook his head, then continued. His path, unfortunately, took him through a mock battle. Two blocks of spearmen pressed against each other on the plateau, straining and grunting, training to hold their formations under stress. Though they carried blunt practice spears, this was mostly shield work.

  Dalinar saw the warning signs of things going too far. Men were shouting with real acrimony, and angerspren were boiling at their feet. One of the lines wavered, and instead of pulling back, their opponents rammed their shields against them repeatedly.

  Green and white on one side, black and maroon on the other. Sadeas and Aladar. Dalinar cursed and approached the men, shouting for them to pull back. Soon, his call was taken up by captains and commanders. The rear ranks of the two practice blocks pulled away—leaving the contestants at the center to devolve into a brawl.

  Dalinar shouted, and Stormlight shimmered along the stones before him. Those who hadn’t gotten caught up in the fighting jumped back. The rest got stuck in the Stormlight, which glued them to the ground. This caused all but the most furious to stop their fighting.

  He pulled the last few apart and pushed them down, sticking them by their seats to the stone next to their angerspren. The men thrashed, then saw him and froze, looking appropriately chagrined.

  I remember being that wrapped up in battle, Dalinar thought. Is it the Thrill? He couldn’t remember feeling it for … for a long time. He would have the men questioned to determine whether any could feel it.

  Dalinar let the Stormlight evaporate away like luminescent steam. Aladar’s officers withdrew their group in an orderly fashion, shouting for the men to start calisthenics. The soldiers from Sadeas’s army, however, spat at the ground and heaved themselves to their feet, retreating in sullen bunches, cursing and muttering.

  They’re getting worse, Dalinar thought. Under Torol Sadeas, they’d been slovenly and sadistic, but still soldiers. Yes, they tended to brawl, but they’d been quick to obey in b
attle. So they’d been effective, just not exemplary.

  The new Sadeas banner flew above these men. Meridas Sadeas—Amaram—had changed the glyphpair’s design, as was traditional: Sadeas’s squat tower had elongated, and the hammer had changed to an axe.

  Despite his reputation for running a crisp army, it was obvious he was having trouble controlling these men. He’d never commanded a force this large—and perhaps the murder of their highprince had upset the men to the point that there was nothing Amaram could do.

  Aladar hadn’t been able to provide anything of substance about Torol’s murder. The investigation was supposed to be ongoing … but there were no leads. The spren hadn’t done it, but they had no idea who had.

  I’ll need to take action about those soldiers, Dalinar thought. They need something to tire them out, keep them from getting into fights.…

  Perhaps he had just the thing. He considered that as he finally made his way up the ramp to the proper Oathgate platform, then crossed the empty field to the control building. Jasnah waited within, reading a book and making notes. “What took you?” she asked.

  “Almost had a riot out on the parade ground,” he said. “Two training formations got interlocked and started bashing one another.”

  “Sadeas?”

  Dalinar nodded.

  “We’ll have to do something about them.”

  “I’ve been thinking. Maybe some hard labor—strictly supervised—in a ruined city might be just the thing.”

  Jasnah smiled. “How convenient that we’re currently providing exactly such assistance to Queen Fen. Work Sadeas’s troops to exhaustion, assuming we can keep them under control there.”

  “I’ll start with small batches, to be certain we’re not sending more trouble Fen’s direction,” Dalinar said. “Have you had any news from the king’s infiltration team at Kholinar?” As anticipated, the Stormfather was unable to reach anyone on the team to bring them into a vision—nor would Dalinar dare risk it—but they’d sent several spanreeds with Elhokar and Shallan.

  “None. We’ll keep watch and tell you the moment we get any sort of response.”

  Dalinar nodded, and shoved down his worry for Elhokar and his son. He had to trust that they’d eventually either accomplish their task, or find a way to report what was stopping them.