Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive #3)

“These men end up getting everyone else squished.”

“Is there not a third type of person?”

“There is, but they are oh so rare. These know they can’t stop the boulder. So they walk beside it, study it, and bide their time. Then they shove it—ever so slightly—to create a deviation in its path.

“These are the men … well, these are the men who actually change the world. And they terrify me. For men never see as far as they think they do.”

Shallan frowned, then looked at her empty plate. She hadn’t thought she was hungry, but once she’d started eating …

Wit walked past and deftly lifted her plate away, then swapped it with his full one.

“Wit … I can’t eat that.”

“Don’t be persnickety,” he said. “How are you going to save the world if you starve yourself?”

“I’m not starving myself.” But she took a little bite to satisfy him. “You make it sound like having the power to change the world is a bad thing.”

“Bad? No. Abhorrent, depressing, ghastly. Having power is a terrible burden, the worst thing imaginable, except for every other alternative.” He turned and studied her. “What is power to you, Shallan?”

“It’s…” Shallan cut at the cremling, separating it from its shell. “It’s what I said earlier—the ability to change things.”

“Things?”

“Other people’s lives. Power is the ability to make life better or worse for the people around you.”

“And yourself too, of course.”

“I don’t matter.”

“You should.”

“Selflessness is a Vorin virtue, Wit.”

“Oh, bother that. You’ve got to live life, Shallan, enjoy life. Drink of what you’re proposing to give everyone else! That’s what I do.”

“You … do seem to enjoy yourself a great deal.”

“I like to live every day like it’s my last.”

Shallan nodded.

“And by that I mean lying in a puddle of my own urine, calling for the nurse to bring me more pudding.”

She almost choked on a bite of cremling. Her cup was empty, but Wit walked past and put his in her hand. She gulped it down.

“Power is a knife,” Wit said, taking his seat. “A terrible, dangerous knife that can’t be wielded without cutting yourself. We joked about stupidity, but in reality most people aren’t stupid. Many are simply frustrated at how little control they have over their lives. They lash out. Sometimes in spectacular ways…”

“The Cult of Moments. They reportedly claim to see a transformed world coming upon us.”

“Be wary of anyone who claims to be able to see the future, Shallan.”

“Except you, of course. Didn’t you say you can see where you need to be?”

“Be wary,” he repeated, “of anyone who claims to be able to see the future, Shallan.”

Pattern rippled on the table, not humming, only changing more quickly, forming new shapes in a rapid sequence. Shallan swallowed. To her surprise, her plate was empty again. “The cult has control of the Oathgate platform,” she said. “Do you know what they do up there every night?”

“They feast,” Wit said softly, “and party. There are two general divisions among them. The common members wander the streets, moaning, pretending to be spren. But others up on the platform actually know the spren—specifically, the creature known as the Heart of the Revel.”

“One of the Unmade.”

Wit nodded. “A dangerous foe, Shallan. The cult reminds me of a group I knew long ago. Equally dangerous, equally foolish.”

“Elhokar wants me to infiltrate them. Get onto that platform and activate the Oathgate. Is it possible?”

“Perhaps.” Wit settled back. “Perhaps. I can’t make the gate work; the spren of the fabrial won’t obey me. You have the proper key, and the cult takes new members eagerly. Consumes them, like a fire needing new logs.”

“How? What do I do?”

“Food,” he said. “Their proximity to the Heart drives them to feast and celebrate.”

“Drinking in life?” she said, quoting his sentiment from earlier.

“No. Hedonism has never been enjoyment, Shallan, but the opposite. They take the wonderful things of life and indulge until they lose savor. It’s listening to beautiful music, performed so loud as to eliminate all subtlety—taking something beautiful and making it carnal. Yet their feasting does give you an opening. I’ve brushed against their leaders—despite my best efforts. Bring them food for the revel, and I can get you in. A warning, however, simple Soulcast grain won’t satisfy them.”

A challenge, then. “I should get back to the others.” She looked up to Wit. “Would you … come with me? Join us?”

He stood, then walked to the door and pressed his ear against it. “Unfortunately, Shallan,” he said, glancing at her, “you’re not why I am here.”

She took a deep breath. “I am going to learn how to change the world, Wit.”

“You already know how. Learn why.” He stepped back from the door and pressed himself against the wall. “Also, tell the innkeeper I disappeared in a puff of smoke. It will drive him crazy.”

“The inn—”

The door opened suddenly, swinging inward. The innkeeper entered, and hesitated as he found Shallan sitting alone at the table. Wit slipped deftly around the door and out behind the man, who didn’t notice.

“Damnation,” the innkeeper said, searching around. “I don’t suppose he’s going to work tonight?”

“I have no idea.”

“He said he’d treat me like a king.”

“Well, he’s keeping that promise…”

The innkeeper took the plates, then bustled out. Conversations with Wit had a way of ending in an odd manner. And, well, starting in an odd manner. Odd all around.

“Do you know anything about Wit?” she asked Pattern.

“No,” Pattern said. “He feels like … mmm … one of us.”

Shallan fished in her pouch for some spheres—Wit had stolen a few, she noted—as a tip for the poor innkeeper. Then she made her way back to the tailor’s shop, planning how to use her team to get the requisite food.





The wilting of plants and the general cooling of the air is disagreeable, yes, but some of the tower’s functions remain in place. The increased pressure, for example, persists.

—From drawer 1-1, second zircon

Kaladin drew in a small amount of Stormlight and stoked the tempest within. That little storm raged inside him, rising from his skin, haunting the space behind his eyes and making them glow. Fortunately—though he stood in a busy market square—this tiny amount of Stormlight wouldn’t be enough for people to see in the bright sunlight.

The storm was a primal dance, an ancient song, an eternal battle that had raged since Roshar was new. It wanted to be used. He acquiesced, kneeling to infuse a small stone. He Lashed it upward just enough to make it tremble, but not enough to send it zipping into the air.

The eerie screams came soon after. People started to shout in panic. Kaladin ducked away, exhaling his Stormlight and becoming—hopefully—merely another bystander. He crouched with Shallan and Adolin behind a planter. This plaza—with pillared archways on all four sides, sheltering what had once been a great variety of shops—was several blocks away from the tailor’s shop.