Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive #3)

Nohadon led Dalinar back through the door. The light was gone. They crossed to the balcony, which—last time—had overlooked death and desolation. Now, it looked out on a bustling city full of energetic people and rolling carts. The sound of the place crashed into Dalinar, as if it had been suppressed until that moment. Laughing, chatting, calling. Wagons creaking. Chulls bleating.

The men wore long skirts, tied at the waists by wide girdles, some of which came all the way up over their stomachs. Above that they had bare chests, or wore simple overshirts. The outfits resembled the takama Dalinar had worn when younger, though of a far, far older style. The tubular gowns on the women were even stranger, made of layered small rings of cloth with tassels on the bottom. They seemed to ripple as they moved.

The women’s arms were bare up to the shoulders. No safehand covering. In the previous vision, I spoke the Dawnchant, Dalinar remembered. The words that gave Navani’s scholars a starting point to translate ancient texts.

“How do we get down?” Dalinar asked, seeing no ladder.

Nohadon leaped off the side of the balcony. He laughed, falling and sliding along a cloth banner tied between a tower window and a tent below. Dalinar cursed, leaning forward, worried for the old man—until he spotted Nohadon glowing. He was a Surgebinder—but Dalinar had known that from the last vision, hadn’t he?

Dalinar walked back to the writing chamber and drew the Stormlight from the diamond that Nohadon had been using. He returned, then heaved himself off the balcony, aiming for the cloth Nohadon had used to break his fall. Dalinar hit it at an angle and used it like a slide, keeping his right foot forward to guide his descent. Near the bottom, he flipped off the banner, grabbing its edge with two hands and hanging there for an instant before dropping with a thump beside the king.

Nohadon clapped. “I thought you wouldn’t do it.”

“I have practice following fools in their reckless pursuits.”

The old man grinned, then scanned his list. “This way,” he said, pointing.

“I can’t believe you’re out shopping by yourself. No guards?”

“I walked all the way to Urithiru on my own. I think I can manage this.”

“You didn’t walk all the way to Urithiru,” Dalinar said. “You walked to one of the Oathgates, then took that to Urithiru.”

“Misconception!” Nohadon said. “I walked the whole way, though I did require some help to reach Urithiru’s caverns. That is no more a cheat than taking a ferry across a river.”

He bustled through the market and Dalinar followed, distracted by the colorful clothing everyone was wearing. Even the stones of the buildings were painted in vibrant colors. He’d always imagined the past as … dull. Statues from ancient times were weathered, and he’d never considered that they might have been painted so brightly.

What of Nohadon himself? In both visions, Dalinar had been shown someone he did not expect. The young Nohadon, considering war. Now the elderly one, glib and whimsical. Where was the deep-thinking philosopher who had written The Way of Kings?

Remember, Dalinar told himself, this isn’t really him. The person I’m talking to is a construct of the vision.

Though some people in the market recognized their king, his passing didn’t cause much of a stir. Dalinar spun as he saw something move beyond the buildings, a large shadow that passed between two structures, tall and enormous. He stared in that direction, but didn’t see it again.

They entered a tent where a merchant was selling exotic grains. The man bustled over and hugged Nohadon in a way that should have been improper for a king. Then the two started haggling like scribes; the rings on the merchant’s fingers flashed as he gestured at his wares.

Dalinar lingered near the side of the tent, taking in the scents of the grains in the sacks. Outside, something made a distant thud. Then another. The ground shook, but nobody reacted.

“Noh—Your Majesty?” Dalinar asked.

Nohadon ignored him. A shadow passed over the tent. Dalinar ducked, judging the form of the shadow, the sounds of crashing footfalls.

“Your Majesty!” he shouted, fearspren growing up around him. “We’re in danger!”

The shadow passed, and the footfalls grew distant.

“Deal,” Nohadon said to the merchant. “And well argued, you swindler. Make sure to buy Lani something nice with the extra spheres you got off me.”

The merchant bellowed a laughing reply. “You think you got the worse of that? Storms, Your Majesty. You argue like my grandmother when she wants the last spoonful of jam!”

“Did you see that shadow?” Dalinar asked Nohadon.

“Have I told you,” Nohadon replied, “where I learned to make Shin loaf bread? It wasn’t in Shin Kak Nish, if that’s what you were going to reply.”

“I…” Dalinar looked in the direction the enormous shadow had gone. “No. You haven’t told me.”

“It was at war,” Nohadon said. “In the west. One of those senseless battles in the years following the Desolation. I don’t even remember what caused it. Someone invaded someone else, and that threatened our trade through Makabakam. So off we went.

“Well, I ended up with a scouting group on the edge of the Shin border. So you see, I tricked you just now. I said I wasn’t in Shin Kak Nish, and I wasn’t. But I was right next to it.

“My troops occupied a small village beneath one of the passes. The matron who cooked for us accepted my military occupation without complaint. She didn’t seem to care which army was in charge. She made me bread every day, and I liked it so much, she asked if I wanted to learn…”

He trailed off. In front of him, the merchant set weights on one side of his large set of scales—representing the amount Nohadon had purchased—then started pouring grain into a bowl on the other side of the scale. Golden, captivating grain, like the light of captured flames. “What happened to the cook woman?” Dalinar asked.

“Something very unfair,” Nohadon said. “It’s not a happy story. I considered putting it into the book, but decided my story would best be limited to my walk to Urithiru.” He fell silent, contemplative.

He reminds me of Taravangian, Dalinar suddenly thought. How odd.

“You are having trouble, my friend,” Nohadon said. “Your life, like that of the woman, is unfair.”

“Being a ruler is a burden, not merely a privilege,” Dalinar said. “You taught me that. But storms, Nohadon. I can’t see any way out! We’ve gathered the monarchs, yet the drums of war beat in my ears, demanding. For every step I make with my allies, we seem to spend weeks deliberating. The truth whispers in the back of my mind. I could best defend the world if I could simply make the others do as they should!”

Nohadon nodded. “So why don’t you?”

“You didn’t.”

“I tried and failed. That led me to a different path.”

“You’re wise and thoughtful. I’m a warmonger, Nohadon. I’ve never accomplished anything without bloodshed.”

He heard them again. The tears of the dead. Evi. The children. Flames burning a city. He heard the fire roar in delight at the feast.

The merchant ignored them, busy trying to get the grain to balance. The weighted side was still heavier. Nohadon set a finger on the bowl with the grain and pushed down, making the sides even. “That will do, my friend.”

“But—” the merchant said.