Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson

“Tell me, Kadash. Would you really rather not know?”

  Kadash looked at the spanreed, which had stopped writing. He shook his head. “I don’t know, Dalinar. It certainly would be easier.”

  “Isn’t that the problem? What has any of this ever required of men like me? What has it required of any of us?”

  “It required you to be what you are.”

  “Which is self-fulfilling,” Dalinar said. “You were a swordsman, Kadash. Would you have gotten better without opponents to face? Would you have gotten stronger without weights to lift? Well, in Vorinism, we’ve spent centuries avoiding the opponents and the weights.”

  Again, Kadash glanced at the spanreed.

  “What is it?” Dalinar asked.

  “I left most of my spanreeds behind,” Kadash explained, “when I went with you toward the center of the Shattered Plains. I took only the spanreed linked to an ardent transfer station in Kholinar. I thought that would be enough, but it no longer works. I’ve been forced to use intermediaries in Tashikk.”

  Kadash lifted a box onto the desk and opened it. Inside were five more spanreeds, with blinking rubies, indicating that someone had been trying to contact Kadash.

  “These are links to the leaders of Vorinism in Jah Keved, Herdaz, Kharbranth, Thaylenah, and New Natanan,” Kadash said, counting them off. “They had a meeting via reeds today, discussing the nature of the Desolation and the Everstorm. And perhaps you. I mentioned I was going to recover my own spanreeds today. Apparently, their meeting has made them all very eager to question me further.”

  He let the silence hang between them, measured out by the five blinking red lights.

  “What of the one that is writing?” Dalinar asked.

  “A line to the Palanaeum and the heads of Vorin research there. They’ve been working on the Dawnchant, using the clues Brightness Navani gave them from your visions. What they’ve sent me are relevant passages from ongoing translations.”

  “Proof,” Dalinar said. “You wanted solid proof that what I’ve been seeing is real.” He strode forward, grabbing Kadash by the shoulders. “You waited for that reed first, before answering the leaders of Vorinism?”

  “I wanted all the facts in hand.”

  “So you know that the visions are real!”

  “I long ago accepted that you weren’t mad. These days, it’s more a question of who might be influencing you.”

  “Why would the Voidbringers give me these visions?” Dalinar said. “Why would they grant us great powers, like the one that flew us here? It’s not rational, Kadash.”

  “Neither is what you’re saying about the Almighty.” He held up a hand to cut off Dalinar. “I don’t want to have this argument again. Before, you asked me for proof that we are following the Almighty’s precepts, right?”

  “All I asked for and all I want is the truth.”

  “We have it already. I’ll show you.”

  “I look forward to it,” Dalinar said, walking to the door. “But Kadash? In my painful experience, the truth may be simple, but it is rarely easy.”

  Dalinar crossed to the next building over and counted down the rooms. Storms, this building felt like a prison. Most of the doors hung open, revealing uniform chambers beyond: each had one tiny window, a slab for a bed, and a thick wooden door. The ardents knew what was best for the sick—they had access to all the world’s latest research in all fields—but was it really necessary to lock madmen away like this?

  Number thirty-seven was still bolted shut. Dalinar rattled the door, then threw his shoulder against it. Storms, it was thick. Without thinking he put his hand to the side and tried summoning his Shardblade. Nothing happened.

  What are you doing? the Stormfather demanded.

  “Sorry,” Dalinar said, shaking his hand out. “Habit.”

  He crouched down and tried peeking under the door, then called out, suddenly horrified by the idea that they might have simply left the man in here to starve. That couldn’t have happened, could it?

  “My powers,” Dalinar said, rising. “Can I use them?”

  Binding things? the Stormfather said. How would that open a door? You are a Bondsmith; you bring things together, you do not divide them.

  “And my other Surge?” Dalinar said. “That Radiant in the vision made stone warp and ripple.”

  You are not ready. Besides, that Surge is different for you than it is for a Stoneward.

  Well, from what Dalinar could see underneath the door, there seemed to be light in this room. Perhaps it had a window to the outside he could use.

  On his way out, he poked through the ardent chambers until he found an office like Kadash’s. He didn’t find any keys, though the desk still had pens and ink sitting on it. They’d left in haste, so there was a good chance the wall safe contained records—but of course, Dalinar couldn’t get in. Storms. He missed having a Shardblade.

  He rounded the outside of the building to check the window, then immediately felt silly for spending so much time trying to get through the door. Somebody else had already cut a hole in the stone out here, using the distinctive, clean slices of a Shardblade.

  Dalinar stepped inside, picking his way around the broken remnants of the wall, which had fallen inward—indicating that the Shardbearer had cut from the outside. He found no madman. The ardents had likely seen this hole and moved on with their evacuation. News of the strange hole must not have filtered up to the lead ardents.

  He didn’t find anything to indicate where the Herald had gone, but at least he knew a Shardbearer was involved. Someone powerful had wanted into this room, which lent even more credence to the madman’s claims of being a Herald.

  So who had taken him? Or had they done something to him instead? What happened to a Herald’s body when they died? Could someone else have come to the same conclusion that Jasnah had?

  As he was about to leave, Dalinar spotted something on the ground beside the bed. He knelt down, shooed away a cremling, and picked up a small object. It was a dart, green with yellow twine wrapped around it. He frowned, turning it over in his fingers. Then he looked up as he heard someone distantly calling his name.

  He found Kaladin out in the monastery courtyard, calling for him. Dalinar approached, then handed him the little dart. “Ever seen anything like this before, Captain?”

  Kaladin shook his head. He sniffed at the tip, then raised his eyebrows. “That’s poison on the tip. Blackbane derived.”

  “Are you sure?” Dalinar asked, taking the dart back.

  “Very. Where did you find it?”

  “In the chamber that housed the Herald.”

  Kaladin grunted. “You need more time for your search?”

  “Not much,” Dalinar said. “Though it would help if you’d summon your Shardblade.…”

  A short time later, Dalinar handed Navani the records he’d taken from the ardent’s safe. He dropped the dart in a pouch and handed it over as well, warning her about the poisoned tip.

  One by one, Kaladin sent them into the sky, where his bridgemen caught them and used Stormlight to stabilize them. Dalinar was last, and as Kaladin reached for him, he took the captain by the arm.

  “You want to practice flying in front of a storm,” Dalinar said. “Could you get to Thaylenah?”

  “Probably,” Kaladin said. “If I Lashed myself southward as fast as I can go.”

  “Go, then,” Dalinar said. “Take someone with you to test flying another person in front of a storm, if you want, but get to Thaylen City. Queen Fen is willing to join us, and I want that Oathgate active. The world has been turning before our very noses, Captain. Gods and Heralds have been warring, and we were too focused on our petty problems to even notice.”

  “I’ll go next highstorm,” Kaladin said, then sent Dalinar soaring up into the air.

  This is all we will say at this time. If you wish more, seek these waters in person and overcome the tests we have created.

  Only in this will you earn our respect.

  The p
arshmen of Moash’s new sledge crew didn’t like him. That didn’t bother him. Lately, he didn’t much like himself.

  He didn’t expect or need their admiration. He knew what it felt like to be beaten down, despised. When you’d been treated as they had, you didn’t trust someone like Moash. You asked yourself what he was trying to get from you.

  After a few days of pulling their sledge, the landscape began to change. The open plains became cultivated hills. They passed great sweeping wards—artificial stone ridges built by planting sturdy wooden barricades to collect crem during storms. The crem would harden, slowly building up a mound on the stormward side. After a few years, you raised the top of the barricade.

  They took generations to grow to useful sizes, but here—around the oldest, most populated centers of Alethkar—they were common. They looked like frozen waves of stone, stiff and straight on the western side, sloping and smooth on the other side. In their shadows, vast orchards spread in rows, most of the trees cultivated to grow no more than the height of a man.

  The western edge of those orchards was ragged with broken trees. Barriers would need to be erected to the west as well, now.

  He expected the Fused to burn the orchards, but they didn’t. During a water break, Moash studied one of them—a tall woman who hovered a dozen feet in the air, toes pointed downward. Her face was more angular than those of the parshmen. She resembled a spren the way she hung there, an impression accented by her flowing clothing.

  Moash leaned back against his sledge and took a pull on his waterskin. Nearby, an overseer watched him and the parshmen of his crew. She was new; a replacement for the one he’d punched. A few more of the Fused passed on horses, trotting the beasts with obvious familiarity.

  That variety doesn’t fly, he thought. They can raise the dark light around themselves, but it doesn’t give them Lashings. Something else. He glanced back at the one nearest him, the one hovering. But that type almost never walks. It’s the same kind that captured me.

  Kaladin wouldn’t have been able to stay aloft as long as these did. He’d run out of Stormlight.

  She’s studying those orchards, Moash thought. She looks impressed.

  She turned in the air and soared off, long clothing rippling behind her. Those overlong robes would have been impractical for anyone else, but for a creature who almost always flew, the effect was mesmerizing.

  “This isn’t what it was supposed to be like,” Moash said.

  Nearby, one of the parshmen of his crew grunted. “Tell me about it, human.”

  Moash glanced at the man, who had settled down in the shade of their lumber-laden sledge. The parshman was tall, with rough hands, mostly dark skin marbled with lines of red. The others had called him “Sah,” a simple Alethi darkeyes name.

  Moash nodded his chin toward the Voidbringers. “They were supposed to sweep in relentlessly, destroying everything in their path. They are literally incarnations of destruction.”

  “And?” Sah asked.

  “And that one,” Moash said, pointing toward the flying Voidbringer, “is pleased to find these orchards here. They only burned a few towns. They seem intent on keeping Revolar, working it.” Moash shook his head. “This was supposed to be an apocalypse, but you don’t farm an apocalypse.”

  Sah grunted again. He didn’t seem to know any more about this than Moash did, but why should he? He’d grown up in a rural community in Alethkar. Everything he knew about history and religion, he’d have heard filtered through the human perspective.

  “You shouldn’t speak so casually about the Fused, human,” Sah said, standing up. “They’re dangerous.”

  “Don’t know about that,” Moash said as two more passed overhead. “The one I killed went down easy enough, though I don’t think she was expecting me to be able to fight back.”

  He handed his waterskin to the overseer as she came around for them; then he glanced at Sah, who was staring at him, slack-jawed.

  Probably shouldn’t have mentioned killing one of their gods, Moash thought, walking to his place in line—last, closest to the sledge, so he stared at a sweaty parshman back all day.

  They started up again, and Moash expected another long day’s work. These orchards meant Kholinar itself was a little over a day’s hike away at an easy pace. He figured the Voidbringers would push them hard to reach the capital by nightfall.

  He was surprised, then, when the army diverged from the direct route. They wove between some hillsides until they reached a town, one of the many suburbs of Kholinar. He couldn’t recall the name. The tavern had been nice, and welcoming to caravaneers.

  Clearly there were other Voidbringer armies moving through Alethkar, because they’d obviously seized this city days—if not weeks—ago. Parshmen patrolled it, and the only humans he saw were already working the fields.

  Once the army arrived, the Voidbringers surprised Moash again by selecting some of the wagon-pullers and setting them free. They were the weaklings, the ones who had fared worst on the road. The overseers sent them trudging toward Kholinar, which was still too far off to see.

  They’re trying to burden the city with refugees, Moash thought. Ones that aren’t fit to work or fight anymore.

  The main bulk of the army moved into the large storm bunkers in this suburb. They wouldn’t attack the city immediately. The Voidbringers would rest their armies, prepare, and besiege.

  In his youth, he’d wondered why there weren’t any suburbs closer than a day’s walk from Kholinar. In fact, there was nothing between its walls and here, only empty flats—even the hills there had been mined down centuries ago. The purpose was clear to him now. If you wanted to lay siege to Kholinar, this was the closest you could put your army. You couldn’t camp in the city’s shadow; you’d be swept away by the first storm.

  In the town, the supply sledges were split, some sent down one street—which looked hauntingly empty to him—while his went down another. They actually passed the tavern he’d preferred, the Fallen Tower; he could see the glyph etched into the leeward stone.

  Finally his crew was called to a halt, and he let go of the rope, stretching his hands and letting out a relieved sigh. They’d been sent to a large open ground near some warehouses, where parshmen were cutting lumber.

  A lumberyard? he thought, then felt stupid. After hauling wood all this way, what else would he expect?

  Still … a lumberyard. Like those back in the warcamps. He started laughing.

  “Don’t be so jovial, human,” spat one of the overseers. “You’re to spend the next few weeks working here, building siege equipment. When the assault happens, you’ll be at the front, running a ladder toward Kholinar’s infamous walls.”

  Moash laughed even harder. It consumed him, shook him; he couldn’t stop. He laughed helplessly until, short of breath, he dizzily lay back on the hard stone ground, tears leaking down the sides of his face.

  * * *

  We have investigated this woman, Mraize’s newest letter to Shallan read.

  Ishnah has overinflated her importance to you. She was indeed involved in espionage for House Hamaradin, as she told you, but she was merely an assistant to the true spies.

  We have determined that she is safe to allow close to you, though her loyalties should not be trusted too far. If you eliminate her, we will help cover up the disappearance, at your request. But we have no objection to you retaining her services.

  Shallan sighed, settling back in her seat, where she waited outside King Elhokar’s audience chamber. She’d found this paper unexpectedly in her satchel.

  So much for hoping Ishnah had information about the Ghostbloods she could use. The letter practically boiled with possessiveness. They would “allow” Ishnah to be close to her? Storms, they acted like they owned her already.

  She shook her head, then rummaged in her satchel, taking out a small sphere pouch. It would look unremarkable to anyone inspecting it—for they wouldn’t know that she’d transformed it with a small but simple illusion.
Though it appeared violet, it was actually white.

  The interesting thing about it was not the illusion itself, but how she was powering it. She’d practiced before with attaching an illusion to Pattern, or to a location, but she’d always needed to power it with her own Stormlight. This one, however, she’d attached to a sphere inside the pouch.

  She was going on four hours now with the Lightweaving needing no extra Stormlight from her. She’d needed only to create it, then affix it to the sphere. Slowly, the Light had been draining from the sapphire mark—just like a fabrial draining its gemstone. She’d even left the pouch alone in her rooms when going out, and the illusion had still been in place when she’d returned.

  This had begun as an experiment on how she could help Dalinar create his illusory maps of the world, then leave them for him, without her having to remain in the meeting. Now, however, she was seeing all kinds of possible applications.

  The door opened, and she dropped the pouch back into her satchel. A master-servant ushered a few merchants out of the king’s presence; then the servant bowed to Shallan, waving her in. She stepped hesitantly into the audience chamber: a room with a fine blue and green rug and stuffed with furniture. Diamonds shone from lamps, and Elhokar had ordered the walls painted, obscuring the strata.

  The king himself, in a blue Kholin uniform, was unrolling a map onto a large table at the side of the room. “Was there another, Helt?” he asked the master-servant. “I thought I was done for the…” He trailed off as he turned. “Brightness Shallan! Were you waiting out there? You could have seen me immediately!”

  “I didn’t want to be a bother,” Shallan said, stepping over to him as the master-servant prepared refreshment.

  The map on the table showed Kholinar, a grand city, which seemed every bit as impressive as Vedenar. Papers in a pile beside it looked to have the final reports from spanreeds in the city, and a wizened ardent sat near them, ready to read for the king or take notes at his request.

  “I think we’re almost ready,” the king said, noting her interest. “The delay has been nearly insufferable, but requisite, I’m sure. Captain Kaladin did want to practice flying other people before bringing my royal person. I can respect that.”