Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive #3)

Shallan shivered. “And the Unmade was running it.”

“Which let us discover this room and the fabrial column,” Renarin said. “We might not have accomplished that without it. Always look on the bright side.”

“Logically,” Shallan said, “the bright side is the only side you can look on, because the other side is dark.”

Renarin laughed. It brought to mind how her brothers would laugh at what she said. Maybe not because it was the most hilarious thing ever spoken, but because it was good to laugh. That reminded her of what Jasnah had said, though, and Shallan found herself glancing at the woman.

“I know my cousin is intimidating,” Renarin whispered to her. “But you’re a Radiant too, Shallan. Don’t forget that. We could stand up to her if we wanted to.”

“Do we want to?”

Renarin grimaced. “Probably not. So often, she’s right, and you just end up feeling like one of the ten fools.”

“True, but … I don’t know if I can stand being ordered around like a child again. I’m starting to feel crazy. What do I do?”

Renarin shrugged. “I’ve found the best way to avoid doing what Jasnah says is to not be around when she’s looking for someone to give orders to.”

Shallan perked up. That made a lot of sense. Dalinar would need his Radiants to go do things, right? She needed to get away, just until she could figure things out. Go somewhere … like on that mission to Kholinar? Wouldn’t they need someone who could sneak into the palace and activate the device?

“Renarin,” she said, “you’re a genius.”

He blushed, but smiled.

Navani called the meeting together again, and they sat to continue discussing fabrials. Jasnah tapped Shallan’s notebook and she did a better job of taking the minutes, practicing her shorthand. It wasn’t nearly as irksome now, as she had an exit strategy. An escape route.

She was appreciating that when she noticed a tall figure striding through the door. Dalinar Kholin cast a shadow, even when he wasn’t standing in front of the light. Everyone immediately hushed.

“Apologies for my tardiness.” He glanced at his wrist, and the forearm timepiece that Navani had given him. “Please don’t stop because of me.”

“Dalinar?” Navani asked. “You’ve never attended a meeting of scribes before.”

“I just thought I should watch,” Dalinar said. “Learn what this piece of my organization is doing.” He settled down on a stool outside the ring. He looked like a warhorse trying to perch on a stand meant for a show pony.

They started up again, everyone obviously self-conscious. She’d have thought that Dalinar would know to stay away from meetings like this, where women and scribes …

Shallan cocked her head as she saw Renarin glance at his father. Dalinar responded with a raised fist.

He came so Renarin wouldn’t feel awkward, Shallan realized. It can’t be improper or feminine for the prince to be here if the storming Blackthorn decides to attend.

She didn’t miss the way that Renarin actually raised his eyes to watch the rest of the proceedings.





As the waves of the sea must continue to surge, so must our will continue resolute.

Alone.

The Voidbringers carried Moash to Revolar, a city in central Alethkar. Once there, they dropped him outside the city and shoved him toward a group of lesser parshmen.

His arms ached from being carried. Why hadn’t they used their powers to Lash him upward and make him lighter, as Kaladin would have?

He stretched his arms, looking around. He’d been to Revolar many times, working a regular caravan to Kholinar. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean he’d seen much of the city. Every city of size had a little huddle of buildings on the outskirts for people like him: modern-day nomads who worked caravans or ran deliveries. The people of the eaves, some had called them. Men and women who hovered close enough to civilization to get out of the weather when it turned bad, but who never really belonged.

From the looks of things, Revolar had quite the eaves culture now—too much of one. The Voidbringers seemed to have taken over the entire storming place, exiling the humans to the outskirts.

The Voidbringers left him without a word, despite having lugged him all this distance. The parshmen who took custody of him here looked like a hybrid between Parshendi warriors and the normal, docile parshmen he’d known from many a caravan run. They spoke perfect Alethi as they shoved him toward a group of humans in a little pen.

Moash settled in to wait. Looked like the Voidbringers had patrols scouting the area, grabbing human stragglers. Eventually, the parshmen herded him and the others toward one of the large storm bunkers outside the city—used for housing armies or multiple caravans during highstorms.

“Don’t make trouble,” a parshwoman said, specifically eyeing Moash. “Don’t fight, or you’ll be killed. Don’t run, or you’ll be beaten. You’re the slaves now.”

Several of the humans—homesteaders, from the looks of it—started weeping. They clutched meager bundles, which parshmen searched through. Moash could read the signs of their loss in their reddened eyes and ragged possessions. The Everstorm had wiped out their farm. They’d come to the big city looking for refuge.

He had nothing on him of value, not any longer, and the parshmen let him go in before the others. He walked into the bunker, feeling a surreal sense of … abandonment? He’d spent the trip here alternately assuming he’d be executed or interrogated. Instead, they’d made a common slave of him? Even in Sadeas’s army, he’d never technically been a slave. Assigned to bridge runs, yes. Sent to die. But he’d never worn the brands on his forehead. He felt at the Bridge Four tattoo under his shirt, on his left shoulder.

The vast, high-ceilinged storm bunker was shaped like a huge stone loaf. Moash ambled through it, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. Huddled groups of people regarded him with hostility, even though he was just another refugee.

He’d always been met with hostility, no matter where he storming went. A youth like him, too big and obviously too confident for a darkeyes, had been considered a threat. He’d joined the caravans to give himself something productive to do, encouraged by his grandparents. They’d been murdered for their kindly ways, and Moash … he’d spent his life putting up with looks like that.

A man on his own, a man you couldn’t control, was dangerous. He was inherently frightening, just because of who he was. And nobody would ever let him in.

Except Bridge Four.