Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive #3)

You must know better than to approach us by relying upon presumption of past relationship.

Inside the increasingly familiar vision, Dalinar carefully nocked an arrow, then released, sending a black-fletched missile into the back of the wildman. The man’s screech was lost in the cacophony of battle. Ahead, men fought frantically as they were pushed backward toward the edge of a cliff.

Dalinar methodically nocked a second arrow, then loosed. This arrow hit as well, lodging in a man’s shoulder. The man dropped his axe midswing, causing him to miss the young, dark-skinned youth lying on the ground. The boy was barely into his teens; the awkwardness hadn’t left him yet, and he had limbs that seemed too long, a face that was too round, too childlike. Dalinar might have let him run messages, but not hold a spear.

The lad’s age hadn’t prevented him from being named Prime Aqasix Yanagawn the First, ruler of Azir, emperor of greater Makabak.

Dalinar had perched on some rocks, bow in hand. While he didn’t intend to repeat his mistake of letting Queen Fen manage all on her own in a vision, he also didn’t want Yanagawn to slip through it without challenge or stress. There was a reason that the Almighty had often put Dalinar in danger in these visions. He’d needed a visceral understanding of what was at stake.

He felled another enemy who got close to the boy. The shots weren’t difficult from his vantage near the fight; he had some training with the bow—though his archery in recent years had been with so-called Shardbows, fabrial bows crafted with such a heavy draw weight that only a man in Shardplate could use them.

It was strange, experiencing this battle for the third time. Though each repetition played out slightly differently, there were certain familiar details. The scents of smoke and moldy, inhuman blood. The way that man below fell after losing an arm, screaming the same half-prayer, half-condemnation of the Almighty.



With Dalinar’s bowmanship, the band of defenders lasted against the enemy until that Radiant climbed up over the edge of the cliff, glowing in Shardplate. Emperor Yanagawn sat down as the other soldiers rallied around the Radiant and pushed the enemy backward.

Dalinar lowered his bow, reading the terror in the youth’s trembling figure. Other men spoke of getting the shakes when a fight was over—the horror of it catching up with them.

The emperor finally stumbled to his feet, using the spear like a staff. He didn’t notice Dalinar, didn’t even question why some of the bodies around him had arrows in them. This boy was no soldier, though Dalinar hadn’t expected him to be one. From his experience, Azish generals were too pragmatic to want the throne. It involved too much pandering to bureaucrats and, apparently, dictating essays.

The youth started down a path away from the cliff, and Dalinar followed. Aharietiam. The people who lived through this had thought it the end of the world. Surely they assumed they’d soon return to the Tranquiline Halls. How would they respond to the information that—after four millennia—mankind still hadn’t been allowed back into heaven?

The boy stopped at the bottom of the twisting path, which led into the valley between rock formations. He watched wounded men limp by, supported by friends. Moans and shouts rose in the air. Dalinar intended to step up and start explaining about these visions, but the boy strode out to walk beside some wounded men, chatting with them.

Dalinar followed, curious, catching fragments of the conversation. What happened here? Who are you? Why were you fighting?

The men didn’t have many answers. They were wounded, exhausted, trailed by painspren. They did find their way to a larger group though, in the direction Jasnah had gone during Dalinar’s previous visit to this vision.

The crowd had gathered around a man standing on a large boulder. Tall and confident, the man was in his thirties, and he wore white and blue. He had an Alethi feel to him, except … not quite. His skin was a shade darker, and something was faintly off about his features.

Yet there was something … familiar about the man.

“You must spread the word,” the man proclaimed. “We have won! At long last, the Voidbringers are defeated. This is not my victory, or that of the other Heralds. It is your victory. You have done this.”

Some of the people shouted in triumph. Too many others stood silent, staring with dead eyes.

“I will lead the charge for the Tranquiline Halls,” the man shouted. “You will not see me again, but think not on that now! You have won your peace. Revel in it! Rebuild. Go now, help your fellows. Carry with you the light of your Herald king’s words. We are victorious, at long last, over evil!”

Another round of shouts, more energetic this time.

Storms, Dalinar thought, feeling a chill. This was Jezerezeh’Elin himself, Herald of Kings. The greatest among them.

Wait. Did the king have dark eyes?

The group broke up, but the young emperor remained, staring at the place where the Herald had stood. Finally, he whispered, “Oh, Yaezir. King of the Heralds.”

“Yes,” Dalinar said, stepping up beside him. “That was him, Your Excellency. My niece visited this vision earlier, and she wrote that she thought she’d spotted him.”

Yanagawn grabbed Dalinar by the arm. “What did you say? You know me?”

“You are Yanagawn of Azir,” Dalinar said. He nodded his head in a semblance of a bow. “I am Dalinar Kholin, and I apologize that our meeting must take place under such irregular circumstances.”

The youth’s eyes widened. “I see Yaezir himself first, and now my enemy.”

“I am not your enemy.” Dalinar sighed. “And this is no mere dream, Your Excellency. I—”

“Oh, I know it’s not a dream,” Yanagawn said. “As I am a Prime raised to the throne miraculously, the Heralds may choose to speak through me!” He looked about. “This day we are living through, it is the Day of Glory?”

“Aharietiam,” Dalinar said. “Yes.”

“Why did they place you here? What does it mean?”

“They didn’t place me here,” Dalinar said. “Your Excellency, I instigated this vision, and I brought you into it.”

Skeptical, the boy folded his arms. He wore the leather skirt provided by the vision. He’d left his bronze-tipped spear leaning against a rock nearby.

“Have you been told,” Dalinar asked, “that I am considered mad?”

“There are rumors.”

“Well, this was my madness,” Dalinar said. “I suffered visions during the storms. Come. See.”

He led Yanagawn to a better view of the large field of the dead, which spread out from the mouth of the canyon. Yanagawn followed, then his face grew ashen at the sight. Finally, he strode down onto the larger battlefield, moving among the corpses, moans, and curses.