Oathbringer: Book Three of the Stormlight Archive

“Bridge Four is doing well,” Renarin finally said. “He’ll have them all drinking Stormlight soon.”

“Likely so,” Lunamor said. “Ha! But they have much time until they catch up to you. Truthwatcher! Is good name. More people should watch truth, instead of lies.”

Renarin blushed. “I … I suppose it means I can’t be in Bridge Four anymore, doesn’t it?”

“Why not?”

“I’m a different order of Radiant,” Renarin said, eyes down as he formed a perfectly round piece of dough, then carefully set it onto a stone.

“You have power to heal.”

“The Surges of Progression and Illumination. I’m not sure how to make the second one work though. Shallan has explained it seven times, but I can’t create even the smallest illusion. Something’s wrong.”

“Still, only healing for now? This thing will be very useful to Bridge Four!”

“I can’t be Bridge Four anymore.”

“That is nonsense. Bridge Four is not Windrunners.”

“Then what is it?”

“It is us,” Lunamor sad. “It is me, it is them, it is you.” He nodded toward Dabbid. “That one, he will never hold spear again. He will not fly, but he is Bridge Four. I am forbidden to fight, but I am Bridge Four. And you, you might have fancy title and different powers.” He leaned forward. “But I know Bridge Four. And you, Renarin Kholin, are Bridge Four.”

Renarin smiled widely. “But Rock, don’t you ever worry that you aren’t the person everyone thinks you are?”

“Everyone thinks I am loud, insufferable lout!” Lunamor said. “So to be something else would not be bad thing.”

Renarin chuckled.

“You think this about yourself?” Lunamor said.

“Maybe,” Renarin said, making another perfectly round piece of dough. “I don’t know what I am most days, Rock, but I seem to be the only one. Since I could walk, everyone was saying, ‘Look how bright he is. He should be an ardent.’ ”

Lunamor grunted. Sometimes, even if you were loud and insufferable, you knew when not to say anything.

“Everyone thinks it’s so obvious. I have a mind for figures, don’t I? Yes, join the ardents. Of course, nobody says I’m much less of a man than my brother, and nobody points out that it sure would be nice for the succession if the sickly, strange younger brother were safely tucked away in a monastery.”

“When you say these things, you are almost not bitter!” Lunamor said. “Ha! Much practice must have been required.”

“A lifetime.”

“Tell me,” Lunamor said. “Why do you wish to be man who fights, Renarin Kholin?”

“Because it’s what my father always wanted,” Renarin said immediately. “He may not realize it, but it’s there, Rock.”

Lunamor grunted. “Perhaps this is stupid reason, but it is reason, and I can respect that. But tell me, why do you not want to become ardent or stormwarden?”

“Because everyone assumes I will be!” Renarin said, slapping bread down on the heated stones. “If I go and do it, I’m giving in to what they all say.” He looked for something to fidget with, and Lunamor tossed him more dough.

“I think,” Lunamor said, “your problem is different than you say. You claim you are not the person everyone thinks you are. Maybe you worry, instead, that you are that person.”

“A sickly weakling.”

“No,” Lunamor said, leaning in. “You can be you without this being bad thing. You can admit you act and think differently from your brother, but can learn not to see this as flaw. It is just Renarin Kholin.”

Renarin started kneading the dough furiously.

“Is good,” Lunamor said, “that you learn to fight. Men do well learning many different skills. But men also do well using what the gods have given them. In the Peaks, a man may not have such choices. Is privilege!”

“I suppose. Glys says … Well, it’s complicated. I could talk to the ardents, but I’m hesitant to do anything that would make me stand out from the other bridgemen, Rock. I’m already the oddest one in this bunch.”

“Is that so?”

“Don’t deny it, Rock. Lopen is … well, Lopen. And you’re obviously … um … you. But I’m still the strange one. I’ve always been the strangest one.”

Lunamor slapped dough onto a rock, then pointed toward where Rlain—the Parshendi bridgeman they used to call Shen—sat on a rock near his squad, watching quietly as the others laughed at Eth having accidentally stuck a stone to his hand. He wore warform, and so was taller and stronger than he had been before—but the humans seemed to have completely forgotten that he was there.

“Oh,” Renarin said. “I don’t know if he counts.”

“This thing is what everyone always tells him,” Lunamor said. “Over and over again.”

Renarin stared for a long time while Lunamor continued to make bread. Finally, Renarin stood up and dusted off his uniform, walked across the stone plateau, and settled down beside Rlain. Renarin fidgeted and didn’t say anything, but Rlain seemed to appreciate the company anyway.

Lunamor smiled, then finished the last of the bread. He rose and set up the shiki drink with a stack of wooden cups. He took another drink himself, then shook his head and glanced at Huio, who was harvesting the bread. The Herdazian man was glowing faintly—clearly, he’d already learned how to draw in Stormlight.

Airsick Herdazian. Lunamor raised a hand and Huio tossed him a flatbread, which Lunamor bit. He chewed the warm bread, thoughtful. “More salt in the next batch?”

The Herdazian just kept harvesting the bread.

“You do think they need more salt, don’t you?” Lunamor said.

Huio shrugged.

“Add more salt to that batch that I’ve started mixing,” Lunamor said. “And do not look so self-satisfied. I may still throw you off side of plateau.”

Huio smiled and kept working.

The men soon started coming over for something to drink. They grinned, thumped Lunamor on the back, told him he was a genius. But of course, none remembered that he had tried serving them shiki once before. They had mostly left it in the cauldron, opting for beer instead.

That day they hadn’t been hot, sweaty, and frustrated. Know your enemy. Out here, with the right drink, he was a little god unto himself. Ha! A god of cool drinks and friendly advice. Any chef worth his spoons learned to talk, because cooking was an art—and art was subjective. One man could love an ice sculpture while another thought it boring. It was the same with food and drink. It did not make the food broken, or the person broken, to not be liked.

He chatted with Leyten, who was still shaken by their experience with the dark god below Urithiru. Powerful god that had been, and very vengeful. There were legends of such things in the Peaks; Lunamor’s great-great-great-grandfather had met with one while traveling the third divide. Excellent and important story, which Lunamor did not share today.