Oathbringer: Book Three of the Stormlight Archive

He was waiting at the inn where Wit had once stayed. Radiant retained hope that she’d meet him again there, for a more thorough interrogation. In the private room, away from the eyes of the fretting innkeeper, Vathah laid out a couple of spheres to light the maps he’d purchased. They detailed the manor she intended to hit this afternoon.

“They call it the Mausoleum,” Vathah explained as Veil sat. He showed her an artist’s sketch he’d purchased, which was of the building’s grand hall. “Those statues are all Soulcast, by the way. They’re favored servants of the house, turned to storming stone.”

“It’s a sign of honor and respect among lighteyes.”

“It’s creepy,” Vathah said. “When I die, burn my corpse up right good. Don’t leave me staring for eternity while your descendants sip their tea.”

Veil nodded absently, placing Shallan’s sketchbook on the table. “Pick an alias from this. This map says the larder is on the outside wall. Time is tight, so we might want to do this one the easy way. Have Red make a distraction, then use Shallan’s Blade to cut us an opening right in to the food.”

“You know, they’re said to have quite the fortune at the Mausoleum. The Tenet family riches are…” He trailed off as he saw her expression. “No riches, then.”

“We get the food to pay the cult, then we get out.”

“Fine.” He settled on the image of the man sweeping around his pallet, staring at it. “You know, when you reformed me from banditry, I figured I was done with stealing.”

“This is different.”

“Different how? We stole mostly food back then too, Brightness. Just wanted to stay alive and forget.”

“And do you still want to forget?”

He grunted. “No, suppose I don’t. Suppose I sleep a little better now at night, don’t I?”

The door opened and the innkeeper bustled in, holding drinks. Vathah yelped, though Veil turned with a droll expression. “I believe,” she said, “I wanted to not be interrupted.”

“I brought drinks!”

“Which is an interruption,” Veil said, pointing out the door. “If we’re thirsty, we’ll ask.”

The innkeeper grumbled, then backed out the door, carrying his tray. He’s suspicious, Veil thought. He thinks we were up to something with Wit, and wants to find out what.

“Time to move these meetings to another location, eh, Vathah?” She looked back at the table.

And found someone else sitting there.

Vathah was gone, replaced by a bald man with thick knuckles and a well-kept smock. Shallan glanced at the picture on the table, then at the drained sphere beside it, then back at Vathah.

“Nice,” she said. “But you forgot to do the back of the head, the part not in the drawing.”

“What?” Vathah asked, frowning.

She showed him the hand mirror.

“Why’d you put his face on me?”

“I didn’t,” Veil said, standing. “You panicked and this happened.”

Vathah prodded at his face, still looking in the mirror, confused.

“I’ll bet the first few times are always accidents,” Veil said. She tucked the mirror away. “Gather this stuff up. We’ll do the mission as planned, but tomorrow you’re relieved of infiltration duty. I’ll want you practicing with your Stormlight instead.”

“Practicing…” He finally seemed to get it, his brown eyes opening widely. “Brightness! I’m no storming Radiant.”

“Of course not. You’re probably a squire—I think most orders had them. You might become something more. I think Shallan was making illusions off and on for years before she said the oaths. But then, it’s all kind of muddled in her head. I had my sword when I was very young, and…”

She took a deep breath. Fortunately, Veil hadn’t lived through those days.

Pattern hummed in warning.

“Brightness…” Vathah said. “Veil, you really think that I…”

Storms, he seemed like he was going to cry.

She patted him on the shoulder. “We don’t have time to waste. The cult will be waiting for me in four hours, and expect a nice payment of food. You going to be all right?”

“Sure, sure,” he said. The illusion finally dropped, and the image of Vathah himself so emotional was even more striking. “I can do this. Let’s go steal from some rich people and give to some crazy people instead.”





A coalition has been formed among scholar Radiants. Our goal is to deny the enemy their supply of Voidlight; this will prevent their continuing transformations, and give us an edge in combat.

—From drawer 30-20, second emerald

Veil had exposed herself.

That nagged at her as the wagon—filled with spoils from the robbery—rolled toward the appointed meeting place with the cult. She nestled in the back, against a bag of grain, feet up on a paper-wrapped haunch of cured pork.

“Swiftspren” was Veil, as she was the one who had been seen distributing the food. Therefore, to enter this revel, she would have to go as herself.

The enemy knew what she looked like. Should she have created a new persona, a false face, to not expose Veil?

But Veil is a false face, a part of her said. You could always abandon her.

She strangled that part of her, smothered it deep. Veil was too real, too vital, to abandon. Shallan would be easier.

First moon was up by the time they reached the steps to the Oathgate platform. Vathah rolled the wagon into place, and Veil hopped off, coat rippling around her. Two guards here were dressed as flamespren, with golden and red tassels. Their muscular builds, and those two spears set near the steps, hinted these men might have been soldiers before joining the cult.

A woman bustled between them, wearing a flat white mask with eyeholes but no mouth or other features. Veil narrowed her eyes; the mask reminded her of Iyatil, Mraize’s master in the Ghostbloods. But it was a very different shape.

“You were told to come alone, Swiftspren,” the woman said.

“You expected me to unload all of this on my own?” Veil waved to the back of the wagon.

“We can handle it,” the woman said smoothly, stepping over as one of the guards held up a torch—not a sphere lamp—and the other lowered the wagon’s tailgate. “Mmmm…”

Veil turned sharply. That hum …

The guards started unloading the food.

“You can take all but the two bags marked with red,” Veil said, pointing. “I need those for my rounds visiting the poor.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a negotiation,” the cultist said. “You asked for this. You’ve been leaving whispers through the city that you want to join the revel.”

Wit’s work, apparently. She’d have to thank him.

“Why are you here?” the cultist asked, sounding curious. “What is it you want, Swiftspren, so-called hero of the markets?”

“I just … keep hearing this voice. It says that this is the end, that I should give in to it. Embrace the time of spren.” She turned toward the Oathgate platform; an orange glow was rising from the top. “The answers are up there, aren’t they?”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the three nod to one another. She’d passed some kind of test.

“You may climb the steps to enlightenment,” the cultist in white told her. “Your guide will meet you at the top.”