Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive #3)

“Can’t be too careful with this new storm,” the man said. “Be glad the door got stuck.”

Syl sat on the hinges, legs hanging over the sides. Kaladin doubted it had been luck; sticking people’s shoes to the stone was a classic windspren trick. Still, he did understand the doorman’s hesitance. Everstorms didn’t quite match up with scholarly projections. The previous one had arrived hours earlier than anyone had guessed it would. Fortunately, they tended to blow in slower than highstorms. If you knew to watch the sky, there was time to find shelter.

Kaladin ran his hand through his hair and started deeper into the winehouse. This was one of those fashionable places that—while technically a stormshelter—was used only by rich people who had come to spend the storm enjoying themselves. It had a large common room and thick walls of stone blocks. No windows, of course. A bartender kept people liquored near the back, and a number of booths ringed the perimeter.

He spotted Shallan and Adolin sitting in a booth at the side. She wore her own face, but Adolin looked like Meleran Khal, a tall, bald man around Adolin’s height. Kaladin lingered, watching Shallan laugh at something Adolin said, then poke him—with her safehand—in the shoulder. She seemed completely enthralled by him. And good for her. Everyone deserved something to give them light, these days. But … what about the glances she shot him on occasion, times when she didn’t quite seem to be the same person? A different smile, an almost wicked look to her eyes …

You’re seeing things, he thought to himself. He strode forward and caught their attention, settling into the booth with a sigh. He was off duty, and free to visit the city. He’d told the others he’d find his own shelter for the storm, and only had to be back in time for evening post-storm patrol.

“Took you long enough, bridgeboy,” Adolin said.

“Lost track of time,” Kaladin said, tapping the table. He hated being in stormshelters. They felt too much like prisons.

Outside, thunder announced the Everstorm’s arrival. Most people in the city would be inside their homes, the refugees instead in public stormshelters.

This for-pay shelter was sparsely occupied, only a few of the tables or booths in use. That would give privacy to talk, fortunately, but it didn’t bode well for the proprietor. People didn’t have spheres to waste.

“Where’s Elhokar?” Kaladin asked.

“Elhokar is working on last-minute plans through the storm,” Adolin said. “He’s decided to reveal himself tonight to the lighteyes he’s chosen. And … he’s done a good job, Kal. We’ll at least have some troops because of this. Fewer than I’d like, but something.”

“And maybe another Knight Radiant?” Shallan asked, glancing at Kaladin. “What have you found?”

He quickly caught them up on what he’d learned: The Wall Guard might have a Soulcaster, and was definitely producing food somehow. It had seized emerald stores in the city—a fact he’d recently discovered.

“Azure is … tough to read,” Kaladin finished. “She visits the barracks every night, but never talks about herself. Men report seeing her sword cut through stone, but it has no gemstone. I think it might be an Honorblade, like the weapon of the Assassin in White.”

“Huh,” Adolin said, sitting back. “You know, that would explain a lot.”

“My platoon has dinner with her tonight, after evening patrol,” Kaladin said. “I intend to see what I can learn.”

A serving girl came for orders, and Adolin bought them wine. He knew about lighteyed drinks and—without needing to be told—ordered something without a touch of alcohol for Kaladin. He’d be on duty later. Adolin did get Shallan a cup of violet, to Kaladin’s surprise.

As the serving girl left with the order, Adolin reached out toward Kaladin. “Let me see your sword.”

“My sword?” Kaladin said, glancing toward Syl, who was huddling near the back of the booth and humming softly to herself. A way of ignoring the sounds of the Everstorm, which rumbled beyond the stones.

“Not that sword,” Adolin said. “Your side sword.”

Kaladin glanced down to where the sword stuck out beside his seat. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing the thing, which was a relief. The first few days, he’d bumped the sheath into everything. He unbuckled it and set it on the table for Adolin.

“Good blade,” the prince said. “Well maintained. It was in this condition when they assigned it to you?”

Kaladin nodded. Adolin drew it and held it up.

“It’s a little small,” Shallan noted.

“It’s a one-handed sword, Shallan. Close-range infantry weapon. A longer blade would be impractical.”

“Longer … like Shardblades?” Kaladin asked.

“Well, yes, they break all kinds of rules.” Adolin waved the sword through a few motions, then sheathed it. “I like this highmarshal of yours.”

“It’s not even her weapon,” Kaladin said, taking it back.

“You boys done comparing your swords?” Shallan asked. “Because I’ve found something.” She thumped a large book onto the table. “One of my contacts finally tracked down a copy of Hessi’s Mythica. It’s a newer book, and has been poorly received. It attributes distinct personalities to the Unmade.”

Adolin lifted the cover, peeking in. “So … anything about swords in it?”

“Oh hush,” she said, and batted his arm in a playful—and somewhat nauseating—way.

Yes, it was uncomfortable to watch the two of them. Kaladin liked them both … just not together. He forced himself to look around the room, which was occupied by lighteyes trying to drink away the sounds of the storm. He tried not to think of refugees who would be packed into stuffy public shelters, clutching their meager possessions and hoping some of what they were forced to leave behind would survive the storm.

“The book,” Shallan said, “claims there were nine Unmade. That matches the vision Dalinar saw, though other reports speak of ten Unmade. They’re likely ancient spren, primal, from the days before human society and civilization.

“The book claims the nine rampaged during the Desolations, but says not all were destroyed at Aharietiam. The author insists that some are active today; I find her vindicated—obviously—by what we’ve experienced.”

“And there’s one of these in the city,” Adolin said.

“I think…” Shallan said. “I think there might be two, Adolin. Sja-anat, the Taker of Secrets, is one. Again, Dalinar’s visions mention her. Sja-anat’s touch corrupted other spren—and we’re seeing the effects of that here.”

“And the other one?” Adolin asked.

“Ashertmarn,” Shallan said softly. She slipped a little knife from her satchel and began to absently carve at the top of the table. “The Heart of the Revel. The book has less to say on him, though it speaks of how he leads people to indulge in excess.”

“Two Unmade,” Kaladin said. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as I can be. Wit confirmed the second, and the way the queen acted leading up to the riots seems an obvious sign. As for the Taker of Secrets, we can see the corrupted spren ourselves.”