Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive 3)

“They’re demanding your Blade back,” Gavilar said. “They claim that Tanalan’s heir has returned, and deserves the Shard, as you never won it in a true contest.”

Dalinar felt cold.

“Now, I know this to be patently false,” Gavilar said, “because when we fought at Rathalas all those years ago, you said you dealt with the heir. You did deal with the heir, did you not, Dalinar?”

He remembered that day. He remembered darkening that doorway, the Thrill pulsing inside him. He remembered a weeping child holding a Shardblade. The father, lying broken and dead behind. That soft voice, pleading.

The Thrill had vanished in a moment.

“He was a child, Gavilar,” Dalinar said, his voice hoarse.

“Damnation!” Gavilar said. “He’s a descendant of the old regime. That was … storms, that was a decade ago. He’s old enough to be a threat! The whole city is going into rebellion, the entire region. If we don’t act, the whole Crownlands could break off.”

Dalinar smiled. The emotion shocked him, and he quickly stifled the grin. But surely … surely someone would need to go and rout the rebels.

He turned and caught sight of Evi. She was beaming at him, though he’d have expected her to be indignant at the idea of more wars. Instead, she stepped up to him and took his arm. “You spared the child.”

“I … He could barely lift the Blade. I gave him to his mother, and told her to hide him.”

“Oh, Dalinar.” She pulled him close.

He felt a swelling of pride. Ridiculous, of course. He had endangered the kingdom—how would people react if they knew the Blackthorn himself had broken before a crisis of conscience? They’d laugh.

In that moment, he didn’t care. So long as he could be a hero to this woman.

“Well, I suppose rebellion was to be expected,” Gavilar said as he stared out the window. “It’s been years since the formal unification; people are going to start asserting their independence.” He raised his hand toward Dalinar, turning. “I know what you want, Brother, but you’ll have to forbear. I’m not sending an army.”

“But—”

“I can nip this thing with politics. We can’t have a show of force be our only method of maintaining unity, or Elhokar will spend his entire life putting out fires after I’m gone. We need people to start thinking of Alethkar as a unified kingdom, not separate regions always looking for an advantage against one another.”

“Sounds good,” Dalinar said.

It wasn’t going to happen, not without the sword to remind them. For once, however, he was fine not being the one to point that out.

You mustn’t worry yourself about Rayse. It is a pity about Aona and Skai, but they were foolish—violating our pact from the very beginning.

Numuhukumakiaki’aialunamor had always been taught that the first rule of warfare was to know your enemy. One might assume that such lessons weren’t terribly relevant in his life anymore. Fortunately, making a good stew was a lot like going to war.

Lunamor—called Rock by his friends, on account of their thick, lowlander tongues being incapable of proper speech—stirred his cauldron with an enormous wooden spoon the size of a longsword. A fire burned rockbud husks underneath, and a playful windspren whipped at the smoke, making it blow across him no matter where he stood.

He had placed the cauldron on a plateau of the Shattered Plains, and—beautiful lights and fallen stars—he was surprised to discover that he had missed this place. Who would have thought he could become fond of this barren, windswept flatland? His homeland was a place of extremes: bitter ice, powdery snow, boiling heat, and blessed humidity.

Down here, everything was so … moderate, and the Shattered Plains were the worst of all. In Jah Keved he’d found vine-covered valleys. In Alethkar they had fields of grain, rockbuds spreading endlessly like the bubbles of a boiling cauldron. Then the Shattered Plains. Endless empty plateaus with barely anything growing on them. Strangely, he loved them.

Lunamor hummed softly as he stirred with two hands, churning the stew and keeping the bottom from burning. When the smoke wasn’t in his face—this cursed, too-thick wind had too much air to behave properly—he could smell the scent of the Shattered Plains. An … open scent. The scent of a high sky and baking stones, but spiced by the hint of life in the chasms. Like a pinch of salt. Humid, alive with the odors of plants and rot intermingling.

In those chasms, Lunamor had found himself again after a long time being lost. Renewed life, renewed purpose.

And stew.

Lunamor tasted his stew—using a fresh spoon of course, as he wasn’t a barbarian like some of these lowlander cooks. The longroots still had further to cook before he could add the meat. Real meat, from finger crabs he’d spent all night shelling. Couldn’t cook that too long, or it got rubbery.

The rest of Bridge Four stood arrayed on the plateau, listening to Kaladin. Lunamor had set up so that his back was toward Narak, the city at the center of the Shattered Plains. Nearby, one of the plateaus flashed as Renarin Kholin worked the Oathgate. Lunamor tried not to be distracted by that. He wanted to look out westward. Toward the old warcamps.

Not much longer now to wait, he thought. But don’t dwell on that. The stew needs more crushed limm.

“I trained many of you in the chasms,” Kaladin said. The men of Bridge Four had been augmented by some members of the other bridge crews, and even a couple of soldiers that Dalinar had suggested for training. The group of five scout women was surprising, but who was Lunamor to judge?

“I could train people in the spear,” Kaladin continued, “because I myself had been trained in the spear. What we’re attempting today is different. I barely understand how I learned to use Stormlight. We’re going to have to stumble through this together.”

“It’s all good, gancho,” Lopen called. “How hard can it be to learn how to fly? Skyeels do it all the time, and they are ugly and stupid. Most bridgemen are only one of those things.”

Kaladin stopped in line near Lopen. The captain seemed in good spirits today, for which Lunamor took credit. He had, after all, made Kaladin’s breakfast.

“The first step will be to speak the Ideal,” Kaladin said. “I suspect a few of you have already said it. But for the rest, if you wish to be a squire to the Windrunners, you will need to swear it.”

They began belting out the words. Everyone knew the right ones by now. Lunamor whispered the Ideal.

Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.

Kaladin handed Lopen a pouch full of gemstones. “The real test, and proof of your squireship, will be learning to draw Stormlight into yourselves. A few of you have learned it already—”

Lopen started glowing immediately.

“—and they will help the rest learn. Lopen, take First, Second, and Third Squads. Sigzil, you’ve got Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth. Peet, don’t think I haven’t seen you glowing. You take the other bridgemen, and Teft, you take the scouts and…”

Kaladin looked around. “Where is Teft?”

He was only just noticing? Lunamor loved their captain, but he got distracted sometimes. Maybe airsickness.

“Teft didn’t come back to the barracks last night, sir,” Leyten called, looking uncomfortable.