Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive #3)

You mustn’t worry yourself about Rayse. It is a pity about Aona and Skai, but they were foolish—violating our pact from the very beginning.

Numuhukumakiaki’aialunamor had always been taught that the first rule of warfare was to know your enemy. One might assume that such lessons weren’t terribly relevant in his life anymore. Fortunately, making a good stew was a lot like going to war.

Lunamor—called Rock by his friends, on account of their thick, lowlander tongues being incapable of proper speech—stirred his cauldron with an enormous wooden spoon the size of a longsword. A fire burned rockbud husks underneath, and a playful windspren whipped at the smoke, making it blow across him no matter where he stood.

He had placed the cauldron on a plateau of the Shattered Plains, and—beautiful lights and fallen stars—he was surprised to discover that he had missed this place. Who would have thought he could become fond of this barren, windswept flatland? His homeland was a place of extremes: bitter ice, powdery snow, boiling heat, and blessed humidity.

Down here, everything was so … moderate, and the Shattered Plains were the worst of all. In Jah Keved he’d found vine-covered valleys. In Alethkar they had fields of grain, rockbuds spreading endlessly like the bubbles of a boiling cauldron. Then the Shattered Plains. Endless empty plateaus with barely anything growing on them. Strangely, he loved them.

Lunamor hummed softly as he stirred with two hands, churning the stew and keeping the bottom from burning. When the smoke wasn’t in his face—this cursed, too-thick wind had too much air to behave properly—he could smell the scent of the Shattered Plains. An … open scent. The scent of a high sky and baking stones, but spiced by the hint of life in the chasms. Like a pinch of salt. Humid, alive with the odors of plants and rot intermingling.

In those chasms, Lunamor had found himself again after a long time being lost. Renewed life, renewed purpose.

And stew.

Lunamor tasted his stew—using a fresh spoon of course, as he wasn’t a barbarian like some of these lowlander cooks. The longroots still had further to cook before he could add the meat. Real meat, from finger crabs he’d spent all night shelling. Couldn’t cook that too long, or it got rubbery.

The rest of Bridge Four stood arrayed on the plateau, listening to Kaladin. Lunamor had set up so that his back was toward Narak, the city at the center of the Shattered Plains. Nearby, one of the plateaus flashed as Renarin Kholin worked the Oathgate. Lunamor tried not to be distracted by that. He wanted to look out westward. Toward the old warcamps.

Not much longer now to wait, he thought. But don’t dwell on that. The stew needs more crushed limm.

“I trained many of you in the chasms,” Kaladin said. The men of Bridge Four had been augmented by some members of the other bridge crews, and even a couple of soldiers that Dalinar had suggested for training. The group of five scout women was surprising, but who was Lunamor to judge?

“I could train people in the spear,” Kaladin continued, “because I myself had been trained in the spear. What we’re attempting today is different. I barely understand how I learned to use Stormlight. We’re going to have to stumble through this together.”

“It’s all good, gancho,” Lopen called. “How hard can it be to learn how to fly? Skyeels do it all the time, and they are ugly and stupid. Most bridgemen are only one of those things.”

Kaladin stopped in line near Lopen. The captain seemed in good spirits today, for which Lunamor took credit. He had, after all, made Kaladin’s breakfast.

“The first step will be to speak the Ideal,” Kaladin said. “I suspect a few of you have already said it. But for the rest, if you wish to be a squire to the Windrunners, you will need to swear it.”

They began belting out the words. Everyone knew the right ones by now. Lunamor whispered the Ideal.

Life before death. Strength before weakness. Journey before destination.



Kaladin handed Lopen a pouch full of gemstones. “The real test, and proof of your squireship, will be learning to draw Stormlight into yourselves. A few of you have learned it already—”

Lopen started glowing immediately.

“—and they will help the rest learn. Lopen, take First, Second, and Third Squads. Sigzil, you’ve got Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth. Peet, don’t think I haven’t seen you glowing. You take the other bridgemen, and Teft, you take the scouts and…”

Kaladin looked around. “Where is Teft?”

He was only just noticing? Lunamor loved their captain, but he got distracted sometimes. Maybe airsickness.

“Teft didn’t come back to the barracks last night, sir,” Leyten called, looking uncomfortable.

“Fine. I’ll help the scouts. Lopen, Sigzil, Peet, talk your squads through how to draw in Stormlight. Before the day is done, I want everyone on this plateau glowing like they swallowed a lantern.”

They broke up, obviously eager. Translucent red streamers rose from the stone, whipping as if in the wind, one end connected to the ground. Anticipationspren. Lunamor gave them the sign of respect, hand to his shoulder, then his forehead. These were lesser gods, but still holy. He could see their true shapes beyond the streamers, a faint shadow of a larger creature at the bottom.

Lunamor handed off his stirring to Dabbid. The young bridgeman didn’t talk, and hadn’t since Lunamor had helped Kaladin pull him from the battlefield. He could stir though, and run waterskins. He had become something of an unofficial mascot for the team, as he’d been the first bridgeman that Kaladin had saved. When bridgemen passed Dabbid, they gave a subtle salute.

Huio was on kitchen duty with Lunamor today, as was becoming more common. Huio requested it, and the others avoided it. The squat, beefy Herdazian man was humming softly to himself as he stirred the shiki, a brownish Horneater drink that Lunamor had chilled overnight in metal bins on the plateau outside Urithiru.

Strangely, Huio took a handful of lazbo from a pot and sprinkled it into the liquid.

“What are you doing, crazy man!” Lunamor bellowed, stomping up. “Lazbo? In drink? That thing is spicy powder, airsick lowlander!”

Huio said something in Herdazian.

“Bah!” Lunamor said. “I do not speak this crazy language you use. Lopen! Come here and talk to this cousin you have! He is ruining our drinks!”

Lopen, however, was gesturing wildly at the sky and talking about how he’d stuck himself to the ceiling earlier.

Lunamor grunted and looked back at Huio, who proffered a spoon dripping with liquid.

“Airsick fool,” Lunamor said, taking a sip. “You will ruin…”

Blessed gods of sea and stone. That was good. The spice added just the right kick to the chilled drink, combining flavors in a completely unexpected—yet somehow complementary—way.