Oathbringer: Book Three of the Stormlight Archive

My research into the cognitive reflections of spren at the tower has been deeply illustrative. Some thought that the Sibling had withdrawn from men by intent—but I find counter to that theory.

—From drawer 1-1, first zircon

Wit led Shallan to a squat tavern that was so grown over with crem, it gave the impression of having been molded from clay. Inside, a fabrial ceiling fan hung motionless; starting it up would have drawn the attention of the strange screaming spren.

Despite the large signs outside offering chouta for sale, the place was empty. The prices raised Shallan’s eyebrows, but the scents emanating from the kitchen were inviting. The innkeeper was a short, heavyset Alethi man with a paunch so thick he looked like a big chull egg. He scowled as Wit entered.

“You!” he said, pointing. “Storyteller! You were supposed to draw customers here! The place would be full, you said!”

“My tyrannical liege, I believe you misunderstood.” Wit gave a flowery bow. “I said that you would be full. And you are. Of what, I did not say, as I did not wish to sully my tongue.”

“Where are my patrons, you idiot!”

Wit stepped to the side, holding out his hands toward Shallan. “Behold, mighty and terrible king, I have recruited you a subject.”

The innkeeper squinted at her. “Can she pay?”

“Yes,” Wit said, holding up Shallan’s purse and poking through it. “She’ll probably leave a tip too.”

With a start, Shallan felt at her pocket. Storms, she’d even kept her hand on that purse most of the day.

“Take the private room then,” the innkeeper said. “It’s not like anyone else is using it. Idiot bard. I’ll expect a good performance out of you tonight!”

Wit sighed, tossing Shallan her purse. He seized his pack and brazier, leading her to a chamber beside the main dining room. As he ushered her in, he raised a fist toward the innkeeper. “I’ve had enough of your oppression, tyrant! Secure your wine well this evening, for the revolution will be swift, vengeful, and intoxicated!”

Closing the door behind him, Wit shook his head. “That man really should know better by now. I have no idea why he continues to put up with me.” He set his brazier and pack by the wall, then settled at the room’s dining table, where he leaned back and put his boots up on the seat next to him.

Shallan sat at the table more delicately, Pattern slipping off her coat and across to dimple the tabletop next to her. Wit didn’t react to the spren.

The room was nice, with painted wood panels set into the walls and rockbuds along a ledge near the small window. The table even had a yellow silk tablecloth. The room was obviously meant for lighteyes to enjoy private dining, while unsavory darkeyes ate out in the main chamber.

“That’s a nice illusion,” Wit said. “You got the back of the head right. People always flub the back. You’ve broken character though. You’re walking like a prim lighteyes, which looks silly in that costume. You’ll only be able to pull off a coat and hat if you own them.”

“I know,” she said, grimacing. “The persona … fled once you recognized me.”

“Shame about the dark hair. Your natural red would be arresting with the white coat.”

“This guise is supposed to be less memorable than that.”

He glanced at the hat, which she’d set on the table. Shallan blushed. She felt like a girl nervously showing her first drawings to her tutor.

The innkeeper entered with drinks, a mild orange, as it was still early in the day. “Many thanks, my liege,” Wit said. “I vow to compose another song about you. One without so many references to the things you’ve mistaken for young maidens…”

“Storming idiot,” the man said. He set the drinks on the table, and didn’t notice that Pattern rippled out from under one. The innkeeper bustled out, closing the door.

“Are you one of them?” Shallan blurted out. “Are you a Herald, Wit?”

Pattern hummed softly.

“Heavens no,” Wit said. “I’m not stupid enough to get mixed up in religion again. The last seven times I tried it were all disasters. I believe there’s at least one god still worshipping me by accident.”

She eyed him. It was always hard to tell which of Wit’s exaggerations were supposed to mean something and which were confusing distractions. “Then what are you?”

“Some men, as they age, grow kinder. I am not one of those, for I have seen how the cosmere can mistreat the innocent—and that leaves me disinclined toward kindness. Some men, as they age, grow wiser. I am not one of those, for wisdom and I have always been at cross-purposes, and I have yet to learn the tongue in which she speaks. Some men, as they age, grow more cynical. I, fortunately, am not one of those. If I were, the very air would warp around me, sucking in all emotion, leaving only scorn.”

He tapped the table. “Other men … other men, as they age, merely grow stranger. I fear that I am one of those. I am the bones of a foreign species left drying on the plain that was once, long ago, a sea. A curiosity, perhaps a reminder, that all has not always been as it is now.”

“You’re … old, aren’t you? Not a Herald, but as old as they are?”

He slid his boots off the chair and leaned forward, holding her eyes. He smiled in a kindly way. “Child, when they were but babes, I had already lived dozens of lifetimes. ‘Old’ is a word you use for worn shoes. I’m something else entirely.”

She trembled, looking into those blue eyes. Shadows played within them. Shapes moved, and were worn down by time. Boulders became dust. Mountains became hills. Rivers changed course. Seas became deserts.

“Storms,” she whispered.

“When I was young…” he said.

“Yes?”

“I made a vow.”

Shallan nodded, wide-eyed.

“I said I’d always be there when I was needed.”

“And you have been?”

“Yes.”

She breathed out.

“It turns out I should have been more specific, as ‘there’ is technically anywhere.”

“It … what?”

“To be honest, ‘there’ has—so far—been a random location that is of absolutely no use to anyone.”

Shallan hesitated. In an instant, whatever she seemed to have sensed in Wit was gone. She flopped back in her seat. “Why am I talking to you of all people?”

“Shallan!” he said, aghast. “If you were talking to someone else, they wouldn’t be me.”

“I happen to know plenty of people who aren’t you, Wit. I even like some of them.”

“Be careful. People who aren’t me are prone to spontaneous bouts of sincerity.”

“Which is bad?”

“Of course! ‘Sincerity’ is a word people use to justify their chronic dullness.”

“Well, I like sincere people,” Shallan said, raising her cup. “It’s delightful how surprised they look when you push them down the stairs.”

“Now, that’s unkind. You shouldn’t push people down the stairs for being sincere. You push people down the stairs for being stupid.”

“What if they’re sincere and stupid?”

“Then you run.”