Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive 3)

It was shortsighted of him to see such an ancient weapon merely as the sword of the Assassin in White. He stepped out into the larger room next door, then regarded the sword in the light of the spheres he had placed on a stone slab there. Sinuous and elegant, this was the weapon of a king. Jezerezeh’Elin.

“There are some who assumed you were one of the Heralds,” Dalinar noted to the Stormfather, who rumbled in the back of his mind. “Jezerezeh, Herald of Kings, Father of Storms.”

Men say many foolish things, the Stormfather replied. Some name Kelek Stormfather, others Jezrien. I am neither of them.

“But Jezerezeh was a Windrunner.”

He was before Windrunners. He was Jezrien, a man whose powers bore no name. They were simply him. The Windrunners were named only after Ishar founded the orders.

“Ishi’Elin,” Dalinar said. “Herald of Luck.”

Or of mysteries, the Stormfather said, or of priests. Or of a dozen other things, as men dubbed him. He is now as mad as the rest. More, perhaps.

Dalinar lowered the Honorblade, looking eastward toward the Origin. Even through the stone walls, he knew that was where to find the Stormfather. “Do you know where they are?”

I have told you. I do not see all. Only glimpses in the storms.

“Do you know where they are?”

Only one, he said with a rumble. I … have seen Ishar. He curses me at night, even as he names himself a god. He seeks death. His own. Perhaps that of every man.

It clicked. “Stormfather!”

Yes?

“Oh. Uh, that was a curse.… Never mind. Tezim, the god-priest of Tukar? Is it him? Ishi, Herald of Luck, is the man who has been waging war against Emul?”

Yes.

“For what purpose?”

He is insane. Do not look for meaning in his actions.

“When … when were you thinking of informing me of this?”

When you asked. When else would I speak of it?

“When you thought of it!” Dalinar said. “You know things that are important, Stormfather!”

He just rumbled his reply.

Dalinar took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Spren did not think like men. Anger would not change what the Stormfather told him. But what would?

“Did you know about my powers?” Dalinar asked. “Did you know that I could heal the stone?”

I knew it once you did it, the Stormfather said. Yes, once you did it, I always knew.

“Do you know what else I can do?”

Of course. Once you discover it, I will know.

“But—”

Your powers will come when you are ready for them, not before, the Stormfather said. They cannot be hurried or forced.

But do not look toward the powers of others, even those who share your Surges. Their lot is not yours, and their powers are small, petty things. What you did in reknitting those statues was a mere trifle, a party trick.

Yours is the power Ishar once held. Before he was Herald of Luck, they called him Binder of Gods. He was the founder of the Oathpact. No Radiant is capable of more than you. Yours is the power of Connection, of joining men and worlds, minds and souls. Your Surges are the greatest of all, though they will be impotent if you seek to wield them for mere battle.

The words washed over Dalinar, seeming to press him backward with their force. When the Stormfather was done, Dalinar found himself out of breath, a headache coming on. He reflexively drew in Stormlight to heal it, and the small chamber dimmed. That stopped the pain, but it did nothing for his cold sweat.

“Are there others like me out there?” he finally asked.

Not right now, and there can ever be only three. One for each of us.

“Three?” Dalinar said. “Three spren who make Bondsmiths. You … and Cultivation are two?”

The Stormfather actually laughed. You would have a difficult time making her your spren. I should like to see you try it.

“Then who?”

My siblings need not concern you.

They seemed of compelling concern, but Dalinar had learned when to avoid pressing an issue. That would only cause the spren to withdraw.

Dalinar took the Honorblade in a firm grip, then collected his spheres, one of which had gone dun. “Have I ever asked how you renew these?” Dalinar held up the sphere, inspecting the ruby at the center. He’d seen these loose, and had always been surprised by how small they actually were. The glass made them look far larger.

Honor’s power, during a storm, is concentrated in one place, the Stormfather said. It pierces all three realms and brings Physical, Cognitive, and Spiritual together momentarily in one. The gemstones, exposed to the wonder of the Spiritual Realm, are lit by the infinite power there.

“Could you renew this sphere, now?”

I … do not know. He sounded intrigued. Hold it forth.

Dalinar did so, and felt something happen, a tugging on his insides, like the Stormfather straining against their bond. The sphere remained dun.

It is not possible, the Stormfather said. I am close to you, but the power is not—it still rides the storm.

That was far more than he usually got from the Stormfather. He hoped he could remember it exactly to repeat to Navani—of course, if the Stormfather was listening, he’d correct Dalinar’s mistakes. The Stormfather hated to be misquoted.

Dalinar stepped out into the hallway to meet Bridge Four. He held up the Honorblade—a powerful, world-changing artifact. But, like the Shardblades modeled after it, the weapon was useless if he left it hidden.

“This,” he said to the men of Bridge Four, “is the Honorblade your captain recovered.”

The twenty-odd men gathered closer, their curious faces reflecting in the metal.

“Anyone who holds this,” Dalinar said, “will immediately gain the powers of a Windrunner. Your captain’s absence is interrupting your training. Perhaps this, though only one can use it at a time, can mitigate that.”

They gaped at the weapon, so Dalinar held it out toward Kaladin’s first lieutenant—the bearded older bridgeman named Teft.

Teft reached out, then drew his hand back. “Leyten,” he barked. “You’re our storming armorer. You take the thing.”

“Me?” a stocky bridgeman said. “That’s not armor.”

“Close enough.”

“I…”

“Airsick lowlanders,” Rock the Horneater said, shoving forward and taking the weapon. “Your soup is cold. That is idiom for ‘You are all stupid.’ ” The Horneater hefted it, curious, and his eyes bled to a glassy blue.

“Rock?” Teft asked. “You? Holding a weapon?”

“I am not going to swing this thing,” Rock said, rolling his eyes. “I will keep him safe. This is all.”

“It’s a Shardblade,” Dalinar warned. “You’ve trained on those, correct?”

“We have, sir,” Teft said. “Doesn’t mean one of this lot won’t storming cut their own feet off. But … I suppose we can use this to heal it if they do. Sigzil, come up with a rotation so we can practice.”

Heal … Dalinar felt stupid. He’d missed it again. Anyone holding this Blade had the powers of a Radiant. Did that mean they could use Stormlight to heal themselves? If so, that might be a valuable extra use of the weapon.

“Don’t let anyone know you have this,” Dalinar told them. “I assume you can learn to dismiss and summon it like an ordinary Shardblade. See what you can discover, then report to me.”