Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson
“And the third brother?” Kaladin said. “The one who died, moving you from fourth to third, and making you a cook instead of a soldier? Don’t deny it.”
“Is sad story,” Lunamor said. “And today is not day for sad stories. Today is day for laughter, stew, flight. These things.”
And hopefully … hopefully something even grander.
Kaladin patted him on the shoulder. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”
“That is good to know. Though today, I believe someone else wishes to talk.” Lunamor nodded toward someone crossing a bridge onto their plateau. A figure in a stiff blue uniform, with a silver circlet on his head. “The king has been eager to speak with you. Ha! Asked us several times if we knew when you would return. As if we are appointment keepers for our glorious flying leader.”
“Yes,” Kaladin said. “He came to see me the other day.” Kaladin braced himself visibly, setting his jaw, then walked to the king, who had just marched onto the plateau, trailed by a cluster of guards from Bridge Eleven.
Lunamor positioned himself working on the soup where he could listen, as he was curious.
“Windrunner,” Elhokar said, nodding to Kaladin. “It seems you are right, your men have had their powers restored. How soon will they be ready?”
“They’re in fighting shape already, Your Majesty. But to master their powers … well, I can’t say, honestly.”
Lunamor sipped his soup and didn’t turn toward the king, but stirred and listened.
“Have you given thought to my request?” Elhokar said. “Will you fly me to Kholinar, so we can reclaim the city?”
“I’ll do as my commander tells me.”
“No,” Elhokar said. “I’m asking you, personally. Will you come? Will you help me reclaim our homeland?”
“Yes,” Kaladin said softly. “Give me some time, a few weeks at least, to train my men. I’d prefer to bring a few squire Windrunners with us—and if we’re lucky, I might be able to leave a full Radiant behind to lead if something happens to me. But either way … yes, Elhokar. I’ll go with you to Alethkar.”
“Good. We have some time, as Uncle wishes to try contacting people in Kholinar using his visions. Perhaps twenty days? Can you train your squires in that time?”
“I’ll have to, Your Majesty.”
Lunamor glanced at the king, who folded his arms, watching the Windrunners, prospective and current. He seemed to have come not just to speak with Kaladin, but to watch the training. Kaladin walked back to the scouts—his god following in the air after him—so Lunamor brought the king something to drink. Then he hesitated beside the bridge that Elhokar had crossed to reach this plateau.
Their old bridge, from the bridge runs, had been repurposed for moving people around these plateaus closest to Narak. Permanent bridges were still being reconstructed. Lunamor patted the wood. They’d thought this lost, but a salvage party had discovered it wedged in a chasm a short distance away. Dalinar had agreed to have it hauled up, at Teft’s request.
Considering what it had been through, the old bridge was in good shape. It was made of tough wood, Bridge Four was. He looked beyond it, and was unsettled by the sight of the next plateau over—or the rubble of it. A stump of a plateau, made of broken rock that extended only twenty feet or so from the chasm floor. Rlain said that had been an ordinary plateau, before the meeting of Everstorm and highstorm at the Battle of Narak.
During that terrible cataclysm when storms met, entire plateaus had been ripped up and shattered. Though the Everstorm had returned several times, the two storms had not again met over a populated area. Lunamor patted the old bridge, then shook his head, walking back toward his cooking station.
They could have trained at Urithiru, perhaps, but none of the bridgemen had complained at coming here. The Shattered Plains were far better than the lonesome plain before the tower. This place was just as barren, but it was also theirs.
They also hadn’t questioned when Lunamor had decided to bring along his cauldrons and supplies to make lunch. It was inefficient, true, but a hot meal would make up for it—and beyond that, there was an unspoken rule. Though Lunamor, Dabbid, and Hobber didn’t participate in the training or sparring, they were still Bridge Four. They went where the others went.
He had Huio add the meat—with a strict charge to ask before changing any spices. Dabbid continued to stir placidly. He seemed content, though it was hard to tell with that one. Lunamor washed his hands in a pot, then got to work on the bread.
Cooking was like warfare. You had to know your enemy—though his “enemies” in this contest were his friends. They came to each meal expecting greatness, and Lunamor fought to prove himself time and time again. He waged war with breads and soups, sating appetites and satisfying stomachs.
As he worked, hands deep within the dough, he could hear his mother’s humming. Her careful instructions. Kaladin was wrong; Lunamor hadn’t become a cook. He’d always been one, since he could toddle up the stepstool to the counter and stick his fingers in the sticky dough. Yes, he’d once trained with a bow. But soldiers needed to eat, and nuatoma guards each did several jobs, even guards with his particular heritage and blessings.
He closed his eyes, kneading and humming his mother’s song to a beat he could almost, barely, just faintly hear.
A short time later, he heard soft footsteps crossing the bridge behind. Prince Renarin stopped beside the cauldron, his duty of transferring people through the Oathgate finished for now. On the plateau, more than a third of Bridge Four had figured out how to draw in Stormlight, but none of the newcomers had managed it, despite Kaladin’s coaching.
Renarin watched with flushed cheeks. He’d obviously run to get here once released from his other duty, but now he was hesitant. Elhokar had set up to watch near some rocks, and Renarin stepped toward him, as if sitting at the side and watching was his place too.
“Hey!” Lunamor said. “Renarin!”
Renarin jumped. The boy wore his blue Bridge Four uniform, though his seemed somehow … neater than the others.
“I could use some help with this bread,” Lunamor said.
Renarin smiled immediately. All the youth ever wanted was to be treated like the rest of them. Well, that attitude benefited a man. Lunamor would have the highprince himself kneading dough, if he could get away with it. Dalinar seemed like he could use a good session of making bread.
Renarin washed his hands, then sat on the ground across from Lunamor and followed his lead. Lunamor ripped off a piece of dough about as wide as his hand, flattened it, then slapped it against one of the large stones he’d put to warm by the fire. The dough stuck to the stone, where it would cook until one peeled it off.
Lunamor didn’t push Renarin to talk. Some people you wanted to press, draw them out. Others you wanted to let move at their own pace. Like the difference between a stew you brought to a boil and one you kept at a simmer.
But where is his god? Lunamor could see all spren. Prince Renarin had bonded one, except Lunamor had never been able to spot it. He bowed when Renarin wasn’t looking, just in case, and made a sign of reverence to the hidden god.
“Bridge Four is doing well,” Renarin finally said. “He’ll have them all drinking Stormlight soon.”
“Likely so,” Lunamor said. “Ha! But they have much time until they catch up to you. Truthwatcher! Is good name. More people should watch truth, instead of lies.”
Renarin blushed. “I … I suppose it means I can’t be in Bridge Four anymore, doesn’t it?”
“Why not?”
“I’m a different order of Radiant,” Renarin said, eyes down as he formed a perfectly round piece of dough, then carefully set it onto a stone.
“You have power to heal.”
“The Surges of Progression and Illumination. I’m not sure how to make the second one work though. Shallan has explained it seven times, but I can’t create even the smallest illusion. Something’s wrong.”
“Still, only healing for now
“I can’t be Bridge Four anymore.”
“That is nonsense. Bridge Four is not Windrunners.”
“Then what is it?”
“It is us,” Lunamor sad. “It is me, it is them, it is you.” He nodded toward Dabbid. “That one, he will never hold spear again. He will not fly, but he is Bridge Four. I am forbidden to fight, but I am Bridge Four. And you, you might have fancy title and different powers.” He leaned forward. “But I know Bridge Four. And you, Renarin Kholin, are Bridge Four.”
Renarin smiled widely. “But Rock, don’t you ever worry that you aren’t the person everyone thinks you are?”
“Everyone thinks I am loud, insufferable lout!” Lunamor said. “So to be something else would not be bad thing.”
Renarin chuckled.
“You think this about yourself?” Lunamor said.
“Maybe,” Renarin said, making another perfectly round piece of dough. “I don’t know what I am most days, Rock, but I seem to be the only one. Since I could walk, everyone was saying, ‘Look how bright he is. He should be an ardent.’ ”
Lunamor grunted. Sometimes, even if you were loud and insufferable, you knew when not to say anything.
“Everyone thinks it’s so obvious. I have a mind for figures, don’t I? Yes, join the ardents. Of course, nobody says I’m much less of a man than my brother, and nobody points out that it sure would be nice for the succession if the sickly, strange younger brother were safely tucked away in a monastery.”
“When you say these things, you are almost not bitter!” Lunamor said. “Ha! Much practice must have been required.”
“A lifetime.”
“Tell me,” Lunamor said. “Why do you wish to be man who fights, Renarin Kholin?”
“Because it’s what my father always wanted,” Renarin said immediately. “He may not realize it, but it’s there, Rock.”
Lunamor grunted. “Perhaps this is stupid reason, but it is reason, and I can respect that. But tell me, why do you not want to become ardent or stormwarden?”
“Because everyone assumes I will be!” Renarin said, slapping bread down on the heated stones. “If I go and do it, I’m giving in to what they all say.” He looked for something to fidget with, and Lunamor tossed him more dough.
“I think,” Lunamor said, “your problem is different than you say. You claim you are not the person everyone thinks you are. Maybe you worry, instead, that you are that person.”
“A sickly weakling.”
“No,” Lunamor said, leaning in. “You can be you without this being bad thing. You can admit you act and think differently from your brother, but can learn not to see this as flaw. It is just Renarin Kholin.”
Renarin started kneading the dough furiously.
“Is good,” Lunamor said, “that you learn to fight. Men do well learning many different skills. But men also do well using what the gods have given them. In the Peaks, a man may not have such choices. Is privilege!”
“I suppose. Glys says … Well, it’s complicated. I could talk to the ardents, but I’m hesitant to do anything that would make me stand out from the other bridgemen, Rock. I’m already the oddest one in this bunch.”
“Is that so?”
“Don’t deny it, Rock. Lopen is … well, Lopen. And you’re obviously … um … you. But I’m still the strange one. I’ve always been the strangest one.”
Lunamor slapped dough onto a rock, then pointed toward where Rlain—the Parshendi bridgeman they used to call Shen—sat on a rock near his squad, watching quietly as the others laughed at Eth having accidentally stuck a stone to his hand. He wore warform, and so was taller and stronger than he had been before—but the humans seemed to have completely forgotten that he was there.
“Oh,” Renarin said. “I don’t know if he counts.”
“This thing is what everyone always tells him,” Lunamor said. “Over and over again.”
Renarin stared for a long time while Lunamor continued to make bread. Finally, Renarin stood up and dusted off his uniform, walked across the stone plateau, and settled down beside Rlain. Renarin fidgeted and didn’t say anything, but Rlain seemed to appreciate the company anyway.
Lunamor smiled, then finished the last of the bread. He rose and set up the shiki drink with a stack of wooden cups. He took another drink himself, then shook his head and glanced at Huio, who was harvesting the bread. The Herdazian man was glowing faintly—clearly, he’d already learned how to draw in Stormlight.
Airsick Herdazian. Lunamor raised a hand and Huio tossed him a flatbread, which Lunamor bit. He chewed the warm bread, thoughtful. “More salt in the next batch?”
The Herdazian just kept harvesting the bread.
“You do think they need more salt, don’t you?” Lunamor said.
Huio shrugged.
“Add more salt to that batch that I’ve started mixing,” Lunamor said. “And do not look so self-satisfied. I may still throw you off side of plateau.”
Huio smiled and kept working.
The men soon started coming over for something to drink. They grinned, thumped Lunamor on the back, told him he was a genius. But of course, none remembered that he had tried serving them shiki once before. They had mostly left it in the cauldron, opting for beer instead.
That day they hadn’t been hot, sweaty, and frustrated. Know your enemy. Out here, with the right drink, he was a little god unto himself. Ha! A god of cool drinks and friendly advice. Any chef worth his spoons learned to talk, because cooking was an art—and art was subjective. One man could love an ice sculpture while another thought it boring. It was the same with food and drink. It did not make the food broken, or the person broken, to not be liked.
He chatted with Leyten, who was still shaken by their experience with the dark god below Urithiru. Powerful god that had been, and very vengeful. There were legends of such things in the Peaks; Lunamor’s great-great-great-grandfather had met with one while traveling the third divide. Excellent and important story, which Lunamor did not share today.
He calmed Leyten, commiserated with him. The thick-bodied armorer was a fine man, and could talk as loudly as Lunamor sometimes. Ha! You could hear him two plateaus away, which Lunamor liked. What was the point of a little voice? Weren’t voices for being heard?
Leyten went back to his practice, but others had their worries. Skar was the best spearman among them—particularly now that Moash had left—but was feeling self-conscious at not having drawn in Stormlight. Lunamor asked Skar to show him what he’d learned, and—after Skar’s instruction—Lunamor actually managed to draw some in himself. To his delight and surprise.
Skar left with a spring to his step. Another man would have felt worse, but Skar was a teacher at heart. The short man still hoped that Lunamor would someday choose to fight. He was the only one of the bridgemen who actively spoke out about Lunamor’s pacifism.
Once the men had been thoroughly watered, Lunamor found himself looking out across the plateaus for some sign of movement in the distance. Well, best to keep busy with the meal. The stew was perfect—he was pleased to have been able to get the crabs. So much of what everyone ate in the tower was of Soulcast grain or meat, neither of which was very appetizing. The flatbread had cooked up nicely, and he’d even been able to concoct a chutney last night. Now he just had to …
Lunamor almost stumbled into his own cauldron as he saw what was assembling on the plateau to his left. Gods! Strong gods, like Sylphrena. Glowing a faint blue, they clustered around a tall spren woman, who had long hair streaming behind her. She had taken the shape of a person, human sized, and wore an elegant gown. The others swirled about in the air, though their focus was obviously the practicing bridgemen and hopefuls.
“Uma’ami tukuma mafah’liki…” Lunamor started, hastily making the signs of respect. Then, to be sure, he got down on his knees and bowed. He had never seen so many in one place. Even his occasional meeting with an afah’liki in the Peaks
What was the proper offering? He could not give only bows for such a sight as this. But bread and stew? Mafah’liki would not want bread and stew.
“You,” a feminine voice said beside him, “are so wonderfully respectful, it borders on being silly.”
Lunamor turned to find Sylphrena sitting on the side of his cauldron, in her small and girlish shape, legs crossed and hanging over the edge.
He made the sign again. “They are your kin? Is this woman at their front your nuatoma, ali’i’kamura?”
“Kind of maybe sort of halfway,” she said, cocking her head. “I can barely remember a voice … her voice, Phendorana, reprimanding me. I got in so much trouble for searching out Kaladin. Yet here they are! They won’t speak to me. I think they assume that if they do, they’d have to admit to me they were wrong.” She leaned forward, grinning. “And they absolutely hate being wrong.”
Lunamor nodded solemnly.
“You’re not as brown as you were,” Sylphrena said.
“Yes, my tan is fading,” Lunamor said. “Too much time indoors, mafah’liki.”
“Humans can change colors?”
“Some more than others,” Lunamor said, holding up his hand. “Some from other peaks are pale, like Shin, though my peak has always been more bronze.”
“You look like somebody washed you way too much,” Sylphrena said. “They took a scrub brush to you, and rubbed your skin off! And that’s why your hair is red, because you got so sore!”
“These are wise words,” Lunamor said. He wasn’t sure why yet. He’d have to ponder them.
He fished in his pocket for the spheres that he had on him, which weren’t many. Still, he arranged each one in its own bowl and then approached the assemblage of spren. There had to be two dozen or more of them! Kali’kalin’da!
The other bridgemen couldn’t see the gods, of course. He wasn’t sure what Huio or Hobber thought of him walking reverently across the plateau, then bowing himself and arranging the bowls with their spheres as offerings. When he looked up, the ali’i’kamura—the most important god here—was studying him. She rested her hand over one of the bowls and drew out the Stormlight. Then she left, turning into a streak of light and zipping away.