Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson
“Brightlord,” Kadash said, “I would prefer to give this task to another, as I don’t particularly feel—”
“Tough,” Dalinar said. “I need some practice, Kadash. As your master, I demand you give it to me.”
Kadash stared at Dalinar for a protracted moment, then let out an annoyed huff and followed Dalinar to the ring. “I won’t be much of a match for you, Brightlord. I have dedicated my years to scripture, not the sword. I was only here to—”
“—check up on me. I know. Well, maybe I’ll be rusty too. I haven’t fought with a common longsword in decades. I always had something better.”
“Yes. I remember when you first got your Blade. The world itself trembled on that day, Dalinar Kholin.”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Dalinar said. “I was merely one in a long line of idiots given the ability to kill people too easily.”
Rial hesitantly counted the start to the match, and Dalinar rushed in swinging. Kadash rebuffed him competently, then stepped to the side of the ring. “Pardon, Brightlord, but you were different from the others. You were much, much better at the killing part.”
I always have been, Dalinar thought, rounding Kadash. It was odd to remember the ardent as one of his elites. They hadn’t been close then; they’d only become so during Kadash’s years as an ardent.
Navani cleared her throat. “Hate to interrupt this stick-wagging,” she said, “but the queen is ready to speak with you, Dalinar.”
“Great,” he said, not taking his eyes off Kadash. “Read me what she says.”
“While you’re sparring?”
“Sure.”
He could practically feel Navani roll her eyes. He grinned, coming in at Kadash again. She thought he was being silly. Perhaps he was.
He was also failing. One at a time, the world’s monarchs were shutting him out. Only Taravangian of Kharbranth—known to be slow witted—had agreed to listen to him. Dalinar was doing something wrong. In an extended war campaign, he’d have forced himself to look at his problems from a new perspective. Bring in new officers to voice their ideas. Try to approach battles from different terrain.
Dalinar clashed blades with Kadash, smashing metal against metal.
“ ‘Highprince,’ ” Navani read as he fought, “ ‘it is with wondrous awe at the grandeur of the One that I approach you. The time for the world to undergo a glorious new experience has arrived.’ ”
“Glorious, Your Majesty?” Dalinar said, swiping at Kadash’s leg. The man dodged back. “Surely you can’t welcome these events?”
“ ‘All experience is welcome,’ ” came the reply. “ ‘We are the One experiencing itself—and this new storm is glorious even if it brings pain.’ ”
Dalinar grunted, blocking a backhand from Kadash. Swords rang loudly.
“I hadn’t realized,” Navani noted, “that she was so religious.”
“Pagan superstition,” Kadash said, sliding back across the mat from Dalinar. “At least the Azish have the decency to worship the Heralds, although they blasphemously place them above the Almighty. The Iriali are no better than Shin shamans.”
“I remember, Kadash,” Dalinar said, “when you weren’t nearly so judgmental.”
“I’ve been informed that my laxness might have served to encourage you.”
“I always found your perspective to be refreshing.” He stared right at Kadash, but spoke to Navani. “Tell her: Your Majesty, as much as I welcome a challenge, I fear the suffering these new … experiences will bring. We must be unified in the face of the coming dangers.”
“Unity,” Kadash said softly. “If that is your goal, Dalinar, then why do you seek to rip apart your own people?”
Navani started writing. Dalinar drew closer, passing his longsword from one hand to the other. “How do you know, Kadash? How do you know the Iriali are the pagans?”
Kadash frowned. Though he wore the square beard of an ardent, that scar on his head wasn’t the only thing that set him apart from his fellows. They treated swordplay like just another art. Kadash had the haunted eyes of a soldier. When he dueled, he kept watch to the sides, in case someone tried to flank him. An impossibility in a solo duel, but all too likely on a battlefield.
“How can you ask that, Dalinar?”
“Because it should be asked,” Dalinar said. “You claim the Almighty is God. Why?”
“Because he simply is.”
“That isn’t good enough for me,” Dalinar said, realizing for the first time it was true. “Not anymore.”
The ardent growled, then leaped in, attacking with real determination this time. Dalinar danced backward, fending him off, as Navani read—loudly.
“ ‘Highprince, I will be frank. The Iriali Triumvirate is in agreement. Alethkar has not been relevant in the world since the Sunmaker’s fall. The power of the ones who control the new storm, however, is undeniable. They offer gracious terms.’ ”
Dalinar stopped in place, dumbfounded. “You’d side with the Voidbringers?” he asked toward Navani, but then was forced to defend himself from Kadash, who hadn’t let up.
“What?” Kadash said, clanging his blade against Dalinar’s. “Surprised someone is willing to side with evil, Dalinar? That someone would pick darkness, superstition, and heresy instead of the Almighty’s light?”
“I am not a heretic.” Dalinar slapped Kadash’s blade away—but not before the ardent scored a touch on Dalinar’s arm. The hit was hard, and though the swords were blunted, that would bruise for certain.
“You just told me you doubted the Almighty,” Kadash said. “What is left, after that?”
“I don’t know,” Dalinar said. He stepped closer. “I don’t know, and that terrifies me, Kadash. But Honor spoke to me, confessed that he was beaten.”
“The princes of the Voidbringers,” Kadash said, “were said to be able to blind the eyes of men. To send them lies, Dalinar.”
He rushed in, swinging, but Dalinar danced back, retreating around the rim of the dueling ring.
“ ‘My people,’ ” Navani said, reading the reply from the queen of Iri, “ ‘do not want war. Perhaps the way to prevent another Desolation is to let the Voidbringers take what they wish. From our histories, sparse though they are, it seems that this was the one option men never explored. An experience from the One we rejected.’ ”
Navani looked up, obviously as surprised to read the words as Dalinar was to hear them. The pen kept writing. “ ‘Beyond that,’ ” she added, “ ‘we have reasons to distrust the word of a thief, Highprince Kholin.’ ”
Dalinar groaned. So that was what this was all about—Adolin’s Shardplate. Dalinar glanced at Navani. “Find out more, try to console them?”
She nodded, and started writing. Dalinar gritted his teeth and charged Kadash again. The ardent caught his sword, then grabbed his takama with his free hand, pulling him close, face to face.
“The Almighty is not dead,” Kadash hissed.
“Once, you’d have counseled me. Now you glare at me. What happened to the ardent I knew? A man who had lived a real life, not just watched the world from high towers and monasteries?”
“He’s frightened,” Kadash said softly. “That he’s somehow failed in his most solemn duty to a man he deeply admires.”
They met eyes, their swords still locked, but neither one actually trying to push the other. For a moment, Dalinar saw in Kadash the man he’d always been. The gentle, understanding model of everything good about the Vorin church.
“Give me something to take back to the curates of the church,” Kadash pled. “Recant your insistence that the Almighty is dead. If you do that, I can make them accept the marriage. Kings have done worse and retained Vorin support.”
Dalinar set his jaw, then shook his head.
“Dalinar…”
“Falsehoods serve nobody, Kadash,” Dalinar said, pulling back. “If the Almighty is dead, then pretending otherwise is pure stupidity. We need real hope, not faith in lies.”
Arou
“Don’t throw out everything we’ve believed because of a few dreams, Dalinar,” Kadash said. “What of our society, what of tradition?”
“Tradition?” Dalinar said. “Kadash, did I ever tell you about my first sword trainer?”
“No,” Kadash said, frowning, glancing at the other ardents. “Was it Rembrinor?”
Dalinar shook his head. “Back when I was young, our branch of the Kholin family didn’t have grand monasteries and beautiful practice grounds. My father found a teacher for me from two towns over. His name was Harth. Young fellow, not a true swordmaster—but good enough.
“He was very focused on proper procedure, and wouldn’t let me train until I’d learned how to put on a takama the right way.” Dalinar gestured at the takama shirt he was wearing. “He wouldn’t have stood for me fighting like this. You put on the skirt, then the overshirt, then you wrap your cloth belt around yourself three times and tie it.
“I always found that annoying. The belt was too tight, wrapped three times—you had to pull it hard to get enough slack to tie the knot. The first time I went to duels at a neighboring town, I felt like an idiot. Everyone else had long drooping belt ends at the front of their takamas.
“I asked Harth why we did it differently. He said it was the right way, the true way. So, when my travels took me to Harth’s hometown, I searched out his master, a man who had trained with the ardents in Kholinar. He insisted that this was the right way to tie a takama, as he’d learned from his master.”
By now, they’d drawn an even larger crowd. Kadash frowned. “And the point?”
“I found my master’s master’s master in Kholinar after we captured it,” Dalinar said. “The ancient, wizened ardent was eating curry and flatbread, completely uncaring of who ruled the city. I asked him. Why tie your belt three times, when everyone else thinks you should do it twice?
“The old man laughed and stood up. I was shocked to see that he was terribly short. ‘If I only tie it twice,’ he exclaimed, ‘the ends hang down so low, I trip!’ ”
The chamber fell silent. Nearby, one soldier chuckled, but quickly cut himself off—none of the ardents seemed amused.
“I love tradition,” Dalinar said to Kadash. “I’ve fought for tradition. I make my men follow the codes. I uphold Vorin virtues. But merely being tradition does not make something worthy, Kadash. We can’t just assume that because something is old it is right.”
He turned to Navani.
“She’s not listening,” Navani said. “She insists you are a thief, not to be trusted.”
“Your Majesty,” Dalinar said. “I am led to believe that you would let nations fall, and men be slaughtered, because of a petty grievance from the past. If my relations with the kingdom of Rira are prompting you to consider supporting the enemies of all humankind, then perhaps we could discuss a personal reconciliation first.”
Navani nodded at that, though she glanced at the people watching and cocked an eyebrow. She thought all this should have been done in private. Well, perhaps she was right. At the same time, Dalinar felt he’d needed this. He couldn’t explain why.
He raised his sword to Kadash in a sign of respect. “Are we done here?”
In response, Kadash came running at him, sword raised. Dalinar sighed, then let himself get touched on the left, but ended the exchange with his weapon leveled at Kadash’s neck.
“That’s not a valid dueling strike,” the ardent said.
“I’m not much of a duelist these days.”
The ardent grunted, then shoved away Dalinar’s weapon and lunged at him. Dalinar, however, caught Kadash’s arm, then spun the man with his own momentum. He slammed Kadash down to the ground and held him there.
“The world is ending, Kadash,” Dalinar said. “I can’t simply rely on tradition. I need to know why. Convince me. Offer me proof of what you say.”
“You shouldn’t need proof in the Almighty. You sound like your niece!”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“What … what of the Heralds?” Kadash said. “Do you deny them, Dalinar? They were servants of the Almighty, and their existence proved his. They had power.”
“Power?” Dalinar said. “Like this?”
He sucked in Stormlight. Murmuring rose from those watching as Dalinar began to glow, then did … something else. Commanded the Light. When he rose, he left Kadash stuck to the ground in a pool of Radiance that held him fast, binding him to the stone. The ardent wriggled, helpless.
“The Knights Radiant have returned,” Dalinar said. “And yes, I accept the authority of the Heralds. I accept that there was a being, once, named Honor—the Almighty. He helped us, and I would welcome his help again. If you can prove to me that Vorinism as it currently stands is what the Heralds taught, we will speak again.”
He tossed his sword aside and stepped up to Navani.
“Nice show,” she said softly. “That was for the room, not just Kadash, I assume?”
“The soldiers need to know where I stand in relation to the church. What does our queen say?”
“Nothing good,” she muttered. “She says you can contact her with arrangements for the return of the stolen goods, and she’ll consider.”
“Storming woman,” Dalinar said. “She’s after Adolin’s Shardplate. How valid is her claim?”
“Not very,” Navani said. “You got that through marriage, and to a lighteyes from Rira, not Iri. Yes, the Iriali claim their sister nation as a vassal, but even if the claim weren’t disputed, the queen doesn’t have any actual relation to Evi or her brother.”
Dalinar grunted. “Rira was never strong enough to try to claim the Plate back. But if it will bring Iri to our side, then I’d consider it. Maybe I can agree to…” He trailed off. “Wait. What did you say?”
“Hum?” Navani said. “About … oh, right. You can’t hear her name.”
“Say it again,” Dalinar whispered.
“What?” Navani said. “Evi?”
Memories blossomed in Dalinar’s head. He staggered, then slumped against the writing table, feeling as if he’d been struck by a hammer to the head. Navani called for physicians, implying his dueling had overtaxed him.
That wasn’t it. Instead, it was the burning in his mind, the sudden shock of a word spoken.
Evi. He could hear his wife’s name.
And he suddenly remembered her face.
It is not a lesson I claim to be able to teach. Experience herself is the great teacher, and you must seek her directly.
—From Oathbringer, preface
“I still think we should kill him,” Khen—the parshwoman who had been playing cards—said to the others.
Kaladin sat tied and bound to a tree. He’d spent the night there. They’d let him up several times to use the latrine today, but otherwise kept him bound. Though their knots were good, they always posted guards, even though he’d turned himself in to them in the first place.
His muscles were stiff, and the posture was uncomfortable, but he had endured worse as a slave. Almost the entire afternoon had passed so far—and they were still arguing about him.
He didn’t see that yellow-white spren again, the one that had been a ribbon of light. He almost thought he’d imagined it. At least the rain had finally stopped. Hopefully that meant the highstorms—and Stormlight—were close to returning.
“Kill him?” another of the parshmen said. “Why? What danger is he to us?”
“He’ll tell others where we are.”
“He found us easily enough on his own. I doubt others will have trouble, Khen.”
The parshmen didn’t seem to have a specific leader. Kaladin could hear them talking from where they stood, huddled together beneath a tarp. The air smelled wet, and the clump of trees shivered when a gust of wind blew through. A shower of wat
Soon, blessedly, this would all dry up and he could finally see the sun again.
“So we let him go?” Khen asked. She had a gruff voice, angry.
“I don’t know. Would you actually do it, Khen? Bash his head in yourself?”
The tent fell silent.
“If it means they can’t take us again?” she said. “Yes, I’d kill him. I won’t go back, Ton.”
They had simple, darkeyed Alethi names—matched by their uncomfortably familiar accents. Kaladin didn’t worry for his safety; though they’d taken his knife, spanreed, and spheres, he could summon Syl at a moment’s notice. She flitted nearby on gusts of wind, dodging between the branches of trees.
The parshmen eventually left their conference, and Kaladin dozed. He was later roused by the noise of them gathering up their meager belongings: an axe or two, some waterskins, the nearly ruined bags of grain. As the sun set, long shadows stretched across Kaladin, plunging the camp into darkness again. It seemed that the group moved at night.
The tall male who had been playing cards the night before approached Kaladin, who recognized the pattern of his skin. He untied the ropes binding Kaladin to the tree, the ones around his ankles—but left the bonds on Kaladin’s hands.
“You could capture that card,” Kaladin noted.
The parshman stiffened.
“The card game,” Kaladin said. “The squire can capture if supported by an allied card. So you were right.”
The parshman grunted, yanking on the rope to tow Kaladin to his feet. He stretched, working stiff muscles and painful cramps, as the other parshmen broke down the last of the improvised tarp tents: the one that had been fully enclosed. Earlier in the day, though, Kaladin had gotten a look at what was inside.
Children.
There were a dozen of them, dressed in smocks, of various ages from toddler to young teenager. The females wore their hair loose, and the males wore theirs tied or braided. They hadn’t been allowed to leave the tent except at a few carefully supervised moments, but he had heard them laughing. He’d first worried they were captured human children.