Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive #3)

Her perspective was skewed, of course. Lirin had tried to befriend Roshone at first, hadn’t he? Still, Kaladin found little passion to continue the argument. What did he care? He intended to see his parents moved from this city anyway.

“I’ll go set up the spanreed,” she said. “It might take some time to get a reply. In the meantime, the ardents should be fetching your maps.”

“Great,” Kaladin said, pushing past her in the hallway. “I’m going to go speak with my parents.”

Syl zipped over his shoulder as he started down the steps. “So, that’s the girl you were going to marry.”

“No,” Kaladin whispered. “That’s a girl I was never going to marry, no matter what happened.”



“I like her.”

“You would.” He reached the bottom of the steps and looked back up. Roshone had joined Laral at the top of the stairs, carrying the gems Kaladin had left on the table. How much had that been?

Five or six ruby broams, he thought, and maybe a sapphire or two. He did the calculations in his head. Storms … That was a ridiculous sum—more money than the goblet full of spheres that Roshone and Kaladin’s father had spent years fighting over back in the day. That was now mere pocket change to Kaladin.

He’d always thought of all lighteyes as rich, but a minor brightlord in an insignificant town … well, Roshone was actually poor, just a different kind of poor.

Kaladin searched back through the house, passing people he’d once known—people who now whispered “Shardbearer” and got out of his way with alacrity. So be it. He’d accepted his place the moment he’d seized Syl from the air and spoken the Words.

Lirin was back in the parlor, working on the wounded again. Kaladin stopped in the doorway, then sighed and knelt beside Lirin. As the man reached toward his tray of tools, Kaladin picked it up and held it at the ready. His old position as his father’s surgery assistant. The new apprentice was helping with wounded in another room.

Lirin eyed Kaladin, then turned back to the patient, a young boy who had a bloodied bandage around his arm. “Scissors,” Lirin said.

Kaladin proffered them, and Lirin took the tool without looking, then carefully cut the bandage free. A jagged length of wood had speared the boy’s arm. He whimpered as Lirin palpated the flesh nearby, covered in dried blood. It didn’t look good.

“Cut out the shaft,” Kaladin said, “and the necrotic flesh. Cauterize.”

“A little extreme, don’t you think?” Lirin asked.

“Might want to remove it at the elbow anyway. That’s going to get infected for sure—look how dirty that wood is. It will leave splinters.”

The boy whimpered again. Lirin patted him. “You’ll be fine. I don’t see any rotspren yet, and so we’re not going to take the arm off. Let me talk to your parents. For now, chew on this.” He gave the boy some bark as a relaxant.

Together, Lirin and Kaladin moved on; the boy wasn’t in immediate danger, and Lirin would want to operate after the anesthetic took effect.

“You’ve hardened,” Lirin said to Kaladin as he inspected the next patient’s foot. “I was worried you’d never grow calluses.”



Kaladin didn’t reply. In truth, his calluses weren’t as deep as his father might have wanted.

“But you’ve also become one of them,” Lirin said.

“My eye color doesn’t change a thing.”

“I wasn’t speaking of your eye color, son. I don’t give two chips whether a man is lighteyed or not.” He waved a hand, and Kaladin passed him a rag to clean the toe, then started preparing a small splint.

“What you’ve become,” Lirin continued, “is a killer. You solve problems with the fist and the sword. I had hoped that you would find a place among the army’s surgeons.”

“I wasn’t given much choice,” Kaladin said, handing over the splint, then preparing some bandages to wrap the toe. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime.” The less soul-crushing parts of it, at least.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to stay.”

“No. I need to follow those parshmen.”

“More killing, then.”

“And you honestly think we shouldn’t fight the Voidbringers, Father?”

Lirin hesitated. “No,” he whispered. “I know that war is inevitable. I just didn’t want you to have to be a part of it. I’ve seen what it does to men. War flays their souls, and those are wounds I can’t heal.” He secured the splint, then turned to Kaladin. “We’re surgeons. Let others rend and break; we must not harm others.”

“No,” Kaladin said. “You’re a surgeon, Father, but I’m something else. A watcher at the rim.” Words spoken to Dalinar Kholin in a vision. Kaladin stood up. “I will protect those who need it. Today, that means hunting down some Voidbringers.”

Lirin looked away. “Very well. I am … glad you returned, son. I’m glad you’re safe.”



Kaladin rested his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Life before death, Father.”

“See your mother before you leave,” Lirin said. “She has something to show you.”

Kaladin frowned, but made his way out of the healing chamber to the kitchens. The entire place was lit only by candles, and not many of them. Everywhere he went, he saw shadows and uncertain light.

He filled his canteen with fresh water and found a small umbrella. He’d need that for reading maps in this rain. From there, he went hiking up to check on Laral in the library. Roshone had retreated to his room, but she was sitting at a writing table with a spanreed before her.

Wait. The spanreed was working. Its ruby glowed.

“Stormlight!” Kaladin said, pointing.

“Well, of course,” she said, frowning at him. “Fabrials require it.”



“How do you have infused spheres?”

“The highstorm,” Laral said. “Just a few days back.”

During the clash with the Voidbringers, the Stormfather had summoned an irregular highstorm to match the Everstorm. Kaladin had flown before its stormwall, fighting the Assassin in White.

“That storm was unexpected,” Kaladin said. “How in the world did you know to leave your spheres out?”

“Kal,” she said, “it’s not so hard to hang some spheres out once a storm starts blowing!”

“How many do you have?”

“Some,” Laral said. “The ardents have a few—I wasn’t the only one to think of it. Look, I’ve got someone in Tashikk willing to relay a message to Navani Kholin, the king’s mother. Wasn’t that what you implied you wanted? You really think she’ll respond to you?”

The answer, blessedly, came as the spanreed started writing. “ ‘Captain?’ ” Laral read. “ ‘This is Navani Kholin. Is it really you?’ ”

Laral blinked, then looked up at him.

“It is,” Kaladin said. “The last thing I did before leaving was speak with Dalinar at the top of the tower.” Hopefully that would be enough to authenticate him.

Laral jumped, then wrote it.

“ ‘Kaladin, this is Dalinar,’ ” Laral read as the message came back. “ ‘What is your status, soldier?’ ”