Oathbringer

  Those weren’t the spren he’d seen while traveling with Sah and the other parshmen. That one had seemed more akin to a windspren; these looked like vivid yellow spheres crackling with energy. They didn’t seem to be able to pinpoint the rock directly, and spun over the courtyard as if confused, still screaming.

  A short time later, a figure descended from the sky. A Voidbringer in loose red and black clothing that rippled and churned in the breeze. He carried a spear and a tall, triangular shield.

  That spear, Kaladin thought. Long, with a slender point for puncturing armor, it was like a horseman’s lance. He found himself nodding. That would be an excellent weapon for using in flight, where you’d need extra reach to attack men on the ground, or even enemies soaring around you.

  The spren ceased screaming. The Voidbringer looked about, fluttering through the air, then glared at the spren and said something. Again, they seemed confused. They’d sensed Kaladin’s use of Stormlight—likely interpreted it as a fabrial being used—but now couldn’t pinpoint the location. Kaladin had used such a small amount of Stormlight, the rock had lost its charge almost immediately.

  The spren dispersed, vanishing as emotion spren often did. The Voidbringer lingered, surrounded by dark energy, until horns nearby announced the Wall Guard approaching. The creature finally shot back into the air. People who had been hiding scuttled away, looking relieved to have escaped with their lives.

  “Huh,” Adolin said, standing. He wore an illusion, imitating—as per Elhokar’s instructions—Captainlord Meleran Khal, Teshav’s youngest son, a powerfully built balding man in his thirties.

  “I can hold Stormlight as long as I want without drawing attention,” Kaladin said. “The moment I Lash something, they come screaming.”

  “And yet,” Adolin said, glancing at Shallan, “the disguises draw no attention.”

  “Pattern says we’re quieter than him,” Shallan said, thumbing toward Kaladin. “Come on, let’s get back. Don’t you boys have an appointment tonight?”

  * * *

  “A party,” Kaladin said, pacing back and forth in the tailor shop’s showroom. Skar and Drehy leaned by the doorway, each with a spear in the crook of his arm.

  “This is what they’re like,” Kaladin said. “Your city is practically burning. What should you do? Throw a party, obviously.”

  Elhokar had suggested parties as a way of contacting the city’s lighteyed families. Kaladin had laughed at the idea, assuming that there wouldn’t be such a thing. Yet, with minimal searching, Adolin had scrounged up half a dozen invitations.

  “Good darkeyed people slave away, growing and preparing food,” Kaladin said. “But the lighteyes? They have so much storming time they have to make up things to do.”

  “Hey Skar,” Drehy said. “You ever go out drinking, even when at war?”

  “Sure,” Skar said. “And back in my village, we’d have a dance in the stormshelter twice a month, even while boys were off fighting in border skirmishes.”

  “It’s not the same,” Kaladin said. “You taking their side?”

  “Are there sides?” Drehy asked.

  A few minutes later, Adolin came tromping down the stairs and grinning like a fool. He was wearing a ruffled shirt under a powder-blue suit with a jacket that didn’t close all the way and tails at the back. Its golden embroidery was the finest the shop could provide.

  “Please tell me,” Kaladin said, “that you didn’t bring us to live with your tailor because you wanted a new wardrobe.”

  “Come on, Kal,” Adolin said, inspecting himself in a showroom mirror. “I need to look the part.” He checked his cuffs and grinned again.

  Yokska came out and looked him over, then dusted his shoulders. “I think it pulls too tightly through the chest, Brightlord.”

  “It’s wonderful, Yokska.”

  “Take a deep breath.”

  It was like she was a storming surgeon, the way she lifted his arm and felt at his waist, muttering to herself. Kaladin had seen his father give physicals that were less invasive.

  “I thought that straight coats were still the style,” Adolin said. “I have a folio out of Liafor.”

  “Those aren’t up to date,” Yokska said. “I was in Liafor last Midpeace, and they’re moving away from military styles. But they made those folios to sell uniforms at the Shattered Plains.”

  “Storms! I had no idea how unfashionable I was being.”

  Kaladin rolled his eyes. Adolin saw that in the mirror, but just turned around, giving a bow. “Don’t worry, bridgeboy. You can continue to wear clothing to match your scowl.”

  “You look like you tripped and fell into a bucket of blue paint,” Kaladin said, “then tried to dry off with a handful of parched grass.”

  “And you look like what the storm leaves behind,” Adolin said, passing by and patting Kaladin on the shoulder. “We like you anyway. Every boy has a favorite stick he found out in the yard after the rains.”

  Adolin stepped over to Skar and Drehy, clasping hands with each of them in turn. “You two looking forward to tonight?”

  “Depends on how the food is in the darkeyed tent, sir,” Skar said.

  “Swipe me something from the inner party,” Drehy said. “I hear they’ve got storming good pastries at those fancy lighteyes parties.”

  “Sure. You need anything, Skar?”

  “The head of my enemy, fashioned into a tankard for drinking,” Skar said. “Barring that, I’ll take a pastry or seven.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Keep your ears open for any good taverns that are still open. We can go out tomorrow.” He strode past Kaladin and tied on a side sword.

  Kaladin frowned, looking to him, then to his bridgemen, then back at Adolin. “What?”

  “What what?” Adolin asked.

  “You’re going to go out drinking with bridgemen?” Kaladin said.

  “Sure,” Adolin said. “Skar, Drehy, and I go way back.”

  “We spent some time keeping His Highness from falling into chasms,” Skar said. “He repaid us with a bit of wine and good conversation.”

  The king entered, wearing a more muted version of the same style of uniform. He bustled past Adolin, heading toward the stairs. “Ready? Excellent. Time for new faces.”

  The three stopped by Shallan’s room, where she was sketching and humming to herself, surrounded by creationspren. She gave Adolin a kiss that was more intimate than Kaladin had seen from the two of them before, then changed him back into Meleran Khal. Elhokar became an older man, also bald, with pale yellow eyes. General Khal, one of Dalinar’s highest officers.

  “I’m fine,” Kaladin said as she eyed him. “Nobody is going to recognize me.”

  He wasn’t sure what it was, but wearing another face like that … to him it felt like lying.

  “The scars,” Elhokar said. “We need you not to stand out, Captain.”

  Reluctantly, Kaladin nodded, and allowed Shallan to add a Lightweaving to his head to make the slave brands vanish. Then, she handed each of them a sphere. The illusions were tied to the Stormlight inside of those—if the sphere ran out, their false faces would vanish.

  The group set out, Skar and Drehy joining them, spears at the ready. Syl flitted out from an upper window of the shop, soaring on ahead of them along the street. Kaladin had tested summoning her as a Blade earlier, and that hadn’t drawn the screamers, so he felt well-armed.

  Adolin immediately started joking with Skar and Drehy. Dalinar wouldn’t have liked to hear they’d gone out drinking. Not because of any specific prejudice, but there was a command structure to an army. Generals weren’t supposed to fraternize with the rank and file; it threw wrinkles into how armies worked.

  Adolin could get away with things like that. As he listened, Kaladin found himself feeling ashamed of his earlier attitude. The truth was, he was feeling pretty good these days. Yes, there was a war, and yes, the city was seriously stressed—but ever since he’d found his parents alive and well, he’d been feeli
ng better.

  That wasn’t so uncommon a feeling for him. He felt good lots of days. Trouble was, on the bad days, that was hard to remember. At those times, for some reason, he felt like he had always been in darkness, and always would be.

  Why was it so hard to remember? Did he have to keep slipping back down? Why couldn’t he stay up here in the sunlight, where everyone else lived?

  It was nearing evening, maybe two hours from sunset. They passed several plazas like the one where they’d tested his Surgebinding. Most had been turned into living space, with people crowding in. Just sitting and waiting for whatever would happen next.

  Kaladin trailed a little behind the others, and when Adolin noticed, he excused himself from the conversation and dropped back. “Hey,” he said. “You all right?”

  “I’m worried that summoning a Shardblade would make me stand out too much,” Kaladin said. “I should have brought a spear tonight.”

  “Maybe you should let me teach you how to use a side sword. You’re pretending to be head of our bodyguards tonight, and you’re lighteyed today. It looks strange for you to walk around without a side sword.”

  “Maybe I’m one of those punchy guys.”

  Adolin stopped in place and grinned at Kaladin. “Did you just say ‘punchy guys’?”

  “You know, ardents who train to fight unarmed.”

  “Hand to hand?”

  “Hand to hand.”

  “Right,” Adolin said. “Or ‘punchy guys,’ as everyone calls them.”

  Kaladin met his eyes, then found himself grinning back. “It’s the academic term.”

  “Sure. Like swordy fellows. Or spearish chaps.”

  “I once knew a real axalacious bloke,” Kaladin said. “He was great at psychological fights.”

  “Psychological fights?”

  “He could really get inside someone’s head.”

  Adolin frowned as they walked. “Get inside … Oh!” Adolin chuckled, slapping Kaladin on the back. “You talk like a girl sometimes. Um … I mean that as a compliment.”

  “Thanks?”

  “But you do need to practice the sword more,” Adolin said, growing excited. “I know you like the spear, and you’re good with it. Great! But you’re not simply a spearman anymore; you’re going to be an irregular. You won’t be fighting in a line, holding a shield for your buddies. Who knows what you’ll be facing?”

  “I trained a little with Zahel,” Kaladin said. “I’m not completely useless with a sword. But … part of me doesn’t see the point.”

  “You’ll be better if you practice with a sword, trust me. Being a good duelist is about knowing one weapon, and being a good foot soldier—that’s probably more about training than it is about any single weapon. But you want to be a great warrior? For that you need to be able to use the best tool for the job. Even if you’re never going to use a sword, you’ll fight people who do. The best way to learn how to defeat someone wielding a weapon is to practice with it yourself.”

  Kaladin nodded. He was right. It was strange to look at Adolin in that bright outfit, stylish and glittering with golden thread, and hear him speak real battle sense.

  When I was imprisoned for daring to accuse Amaram, he was the only lighteyes who stood up for me.

  Adolin Kholin was simply a good person. Powder-blue clothing and all. You couldn’t hate a man like him; storms, you kind of had to like him.

  Their destination was a modest home, by lighteyed standard. Tall and narrow, at four stories high it could have housed a dozen darkeyed families.

  “All right,” Elhokar said as they drew near. “Adolin and I will feel out the lighteyes for potential allies. Bridgemen, chat with those in the darkeyed guard tent, and see if you can discover anything about the Cult of Moments, or other oddities in the city.”

  “Got it, Your Majesty,” Drehy said.

  “Captain,” he said to Kaladin, “you’ll go to the lighteyed guard tent. See if you can—”

  “—find out anything about this Highmarshal Azure person,” Kaladin said. “From the Wall Guard.”

  “Yes. We will plan to stay relatively late, as intoxicated party guests might share more than sober ones.”

  They broke, Adolin and Elhokar presenting invitations to the doorman, who let them in—then gestured Drehy and Skar toward the darkeyed guards’ feast, happening in a tent set up on the grounds.

  There was a separate tent for people who were lighteyed but not landowners. Privileged, but not good enough to get in the doors to the actual party. In his role as a lighteyed bodyguard, that would be the place for Kaladin—but for some reason the thought of going in there made him feel sick.

  Instead he whispered to Skar and Drehy—promising to be back soon—and borrowed Skar’s spear, just in case. Then Kaladin left, walking the block. He’d return to do as told by Elhokar. But while there was enough light, he thought he’d maybe survey the wall and see if he could get an idea of the Wall Guard’s numbers.

  More, he wanted to walk a little longer. He strolled to the foot of the nearby city wall, counting guard posts on top, looking at the large lower portion that was a natural part of the local rock. He rested his hand on the smooth, strata-lined formation of stone.

  “Hey!” a voice called. “Hey, you!”

  Kaladin sighed. A squad of soldiers from the Wall Guard was patrolling here. They considered this road around the city—next to the foot of the wall—to be their jurisdiction, but they didn’t patrol any farther inward.

  What did they want? He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Well, running would only stir up a ruckus, so he dropped his spear and turned around, extending his arms out to the sides. In a city full of refugees, certainly they wouldn’t harass one man too much.

  A squad of five tromped over to him, led by a man with a wispy dark beard and bright, light blue eyes. The man took in Kaladin’s uniform, with no insignia, and glanced at the fallen spear. Then he looked at Kaladin’s forehead and frowned.

  Kaladin raised his hands to the brands there, which he could feel. But Shallan had put an illusion over those. Hadn’t she?

  Damnation. He’s going to assume I’m a deserter.

  “Deserter, I assume?” the soldier asked sharply.

  Should have just gone to the storming party.

  “Look,” Kaladin said. “I don’t want trouble. I just—”

  “Do you want a meal?”

  “A … meal?”

  “Free food for deserters.”

  That’s unexpected.

  Reluctantly, he lifted the hair from his forehead, testing to see that the brands were still visible. Mostly, the hair prevented one from seeing the details.

  The soldiers started visibly. Yes, they could see the brands. Shallan’s illusion had worn off for some reason? Hopefully the other disguises fared better.

  “A lighteyes with a shash brand?” their lieutenant asked. “Storms, friend. You’ve got to have some story.” He slapped Kaladin on the back and pointed toward their barracks ahead. “I’d love to hear it. Free meal, no strings. We won’t press you into service. I give my oath.”

  Well, he’d wanted information about the leader of the Wall Guard, hadn’t he? What better place to get it than from these men?

  Kaladin picked up his spear and let them lead him away.

  Something is happening to the Sibling. I agree this is true, but the division among the Knights Radiant is not to blame. Our perceived worthiness is a separate issue.

  —From drawer 1-1, third zircon

  The Wall Guard’s barracks smelled like home to Kaladin. Not his father’s house—which smelled of antiseptic and the flowers his mother crushed to season the air. His true home. Leather. Boiling stew. Crowded men. Weapon oil.

  Spheres hung on the walls, white and blue. The place was big enough to house two platoons, a fact confirmed by the shoulder patches he saw. The large common room was filled with tables, and a few armorers worked in the corner, sewing jerkins or uniforms. Others sharpened weapons, a rh
ythmic, calming sound. These were the noises and scents of an army well maintained.

  The stew didn’t smell anywhere near as good as Rock’s; Kaladin had been spoiled by the Horneater’s cooking. Still, when one of the men went to fetch him a bowl, he found himself smiling. He settled onto a long wooden bench, near a fidgety little ardent who was scribing glyphwards onto pieces of cloth for the men.

  Kaladin instantly loved this place, and the state of the men spoke highly of Highmarshal Azure. He would likely be some middling officer who had been thrust into command during the chaos of the riots, which made him all the more impressive. Azure had secured the wall, gotten the parshmen out of the city, and seen to the defense of Kholinar.

  Syl zipped around the rafters as soldiers called out questions about the newcomer. The lieutenant who had found him—his name was Noromin, but his men called him Noro—answered readily. Kaladin was a deserter. He had a shash brand, an ugly one. You should see it. Sadeas’s mark. On a lighteyes no less.

  The others in the barrack found this curious, but not worrisome. Some even cheered. Storms. Kaladin couldn’t imagine any force of Dalinar’s soldiers being so welcoming of a deserter, let alone a dangerous one.

  Considering that, Kaladin now picked out another undercurrent in the room. Men sharpening weapons that had chips in them. Armorers repairing cuts in leather—cuts made by lances in battle. Conspicuously empty seats at most of the tables, with cups set at them.

  These men had suffered losses. Not huge ones yet. They could still laugh. But storms, there was a tension to this room.

  “So,” Noro said. “Shash brand?”

  The rest of the squad settled in, and a short man with hair on the backs of his hands set a bowl of thick stew and flatbread in front of Kaladin. Standard fare, with steamed tallew and cubed meat. Soulcast, of course, and lacking flavor—but hearty and nutritious.

  “I had a squabble,” Kaladin said, “with Highlord Amaram. I felt he’d gotten some of my men killed needlessly. He disagreed.”

  “Amaram,” said one of the men. “You aim high, friend.”

  “I know Amaram,” the man with hairy hands said. “I did secret missions for him, back in my operative days.”