Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive 3)

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.”

“He’s asked me to fly with him above the storm to Thaylen City,” Shallan said, “to open the Oathgate there. He’s overly worried about dropping people—but if he does that to me, I’ll have Stormlight of my own, and should survive the fall.”

“Excellent,” Elhokar said. “Yes, a fine solution. But then, you didn’t come here to talk about this. What is your request of me?”

“Actually,” Shallan said. “Could I talk to you in private for a moment, Your Majesty?”

He frowned, but then ordered his people to step out into the hallway. When two guards from Bridge Thirteen hesitated, the king was firm. “She’s a Knight Radiant,” he said. “What do you think is going to happen to me?”

They filed out, leaving the two of them beside Elhokar’s table. Shallan took a deep breath.

Then changed her face.

Not to that of Veil or Radiant—not one of her secrets—but instead to an illusion of Adolin. It was still surprisingly uncomfortable for her to do it in front of someone. She’d still been telling most people that she was of the Elsecallers, like Jasnah, so they wouldn’t know of her ability to become other people.

Elhokar jumped. “Ah,” he said. “Ah, that’s right.”

“Your Majesty,” Shallan said, changing her face and body to look like that of a cleaning woman she’d sketched earlier, “I’m worried that your mission will not be as simple as you think.”

The letters out of Kholinar—the last ones they’d gotten—were frightened, worried things. They spoke of riots, of darkness, of spren taking form and hurting people.

Shallan changed her face to that of a soldier. “I’ve been preparing a team of spies,” she explained. “Specializing in infiltration and information gathering. I’ve been keeping my focus quiet, for obvious reasons. I would like to offer my services for your mission.”

“I’m not certain,” Elhokar said, hesitantly, “if Dalinar would want me taking two of his Radiants away from him.”

“I’m not accomplishing much for him sitting around here,” Shallan said, still wearing the soldier’s face. “Besides. Is it his mission? Or is it yours?”

“My mission,” the king said. Then hesitated. “But let’s not fool ourselves. If he didn’t want you to go…”

“I am not his subject,” she said. “Nor yours, yet. I’m my own woman. You tell me. What happens if you get to Kholinar, and the Oathgate is held by the enemy? Are you going to let the bridgeman just fight his way in? Or might there be a better option?”

She changed her face to that of a parshwoman she had from her older sketches.

Elhokar nodded, walking around her. “A team, you say. Of spies? Interesting…”

* * *

A short time later, Shallan left the room carrying—tucked into her safepouch—a formal royal request to Dalinar for Shallan’s aid on the mission. Kaladin had said he felt comfortable bringing six people, other than a few bridgemen, who could fly on their own.

Adolin and Elhokar would leave room for four others. She tucked Elhokar’s request into her safepouch, beside the letter from Mraize.

I just need to be away from this place, Shallan thought. I need to be away from them, and from Jasnah, at least until I can figure out what I want.

A part of her knew what she was doing. It was getting harder to hide things in the back of her mind and ignore them, now that she’d spoken Ideals. Instead she was fleeing.

But she could help the group going to Kholinar. And it did feel exciting, the idea of going to the city and finding the secrets there. She wasn’t only running. She’d also be helping Adolin reclaim his home.

Pattern hummed from her skirts, and she hummed along with him.

EIGHTEEN AND A HALF YEARS AGO

Dalinar plodded back into camp, so tired he suspected only the energy of his Plate was keeping him upright. Each muggy breath inside his helm fogged the metal, which—as always—went somewhat transparent from the inside when you engaged the visor.

He’d crushed the Herdazians—sending them back to start a civil war, securing the Alethi lands to the north and claiming the island of Akak. Now he’d moved southward, to engage the Vedens at the border. Herdaz had taken far longer than Dalinar had expected. He’d been out on campaign a total of four years now.

Four glorious years.

Dalinar walked straight to his armorers’ tent, picking up attendants and messengers along the way. When he ignored their questions, they trailed after him like cremlings eyeing a greatshell’s kill, waiting for their moment to snatch a tidbit.

Inside the tent, he extended his arms to the sides and let the armorers start the disassembly. Helm, then arms, revealing the gambeson he wore for padding. The helm’s removal exposed sweaty, clammy skin that made the air feel too cold. The breastplate was cracked along the left side, and the armorers buzzed, discussing the repair. As if they had to do something other than merely give the Plate Stormlight and let it regrow itself.

Eventually, all that remained were his boots, which he stepped out of, maintaining a martial posture by pure force of will. The support of his Plate removed, exhaustionspren began to shoot up around him like jets of dust. He stepped over to a set of travel cushions and sat down, reclining against them, sighing, and closing his eyes.

“Brightlord?” one of the armorers asked. “Um … that’s where we set—”

“This is now my audience tent,” Dalinar said, not opening his eyes. “Take what is absolutely essential and leave me.”

The clanking of armor stopped as the workers digested what he’d said. They left in a whispering rush, and nobody else bothered him for a blissful five minutes—until footfalls sounded nearby. Tent flaps rustled, then leather scrunched as someone knelt beside him.

“The final battle report is here, Brightlord.” Kadash’s voice. Of course it would be one of his storming officers. Dalinar had trained them far too well.

“Speak,” Dalinar said, opening his eyes.

Kadash had reached middle age, maybe two or three years older than Dalinar. He now had a twisting scar across his face and head from where a spear had hit him.

“We completely routed them, Brightlord,” Kadash said. “Our archers and light infantry followed with an extended harry. We slew, by best count, two thousand—nearly half. We could have gotten more if we’d boxed them in to the south.”