Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive #3)

The sight of his brother, lying dead on the slab.

“Spirit, mind, and body,” the wizened ardent said, her voice echoing in the stone catacomb. “Death is the separation of the three. The body remains in our realm, to be reused. The spirit rejoins the pool of divine essence that gave it birth. And the mind … the mind goes to the Tranquiline Halls to find its reward.”

Dalinar’s nails bit his skin as he clenched his hands into fists—tight, to keep him from trembling.

“Gavilar the Majestic,” the ardent continued, “first king of Alethkar in the new Kholin Dynasty, thirty-second highprince of the Kholin princedom, heir of the Sunmaker and blessed of the Almighty. His accomplishments will be lauded by all, and his dominion extends to the hereafter. Already he leads men again on the battlefield, serving the Almighty in the true war against the Voidbringers.”

The ardent thrust a bony hand toward the small crowd. “Our king’s war has moved to the Tranquiline Halls. The end of our war for Roshar did not end our duty to the Almighty! Think upon your Callings, men and women of Alethkar. Think of how you might learn here, and be of use in the next world.”

Jevena would use any available opportunity to preach. Dalinar clenched his hands tighter, angry at her—angry at the Almighty. Dalinar should not have lived to see his brother die. This was not the way it should have gone.

He felt eyes on his back. Collected highprinces and wives, important ardents, Navani, Jasnah, Elhokar, Aesudan, Dalinar’s sons. Nearby, Highprince Sebarial glanced at Dalinar, eyebrows raised. He seemed to be expecting something.

I’m not drunk, you idiot, Dalinar thought. I’m not going to make a scene to amuse you.

Things had been going better lately. Dalinar had started controlling his vices; he’d confined his drinking to monthly trips away from Kholinar, visiting outer cities. He said the trips were to let Elhokar practice ruling without Dalinar looking over his shoulder, as Gavilar had been spending more and more time abroad. But during those trips, Dalinar drank himself to oblivion, letting himself escape the sounds of children crying for a few precious days.

Then, when he returned to Kholinar, he controlled his drinking. And he’d never again yelled at his sons, as he had at poor Renarin during that day on the way back from the Shattered Plains. Adolin and Renarin were the only pure remnant of Evi.

If you control your drinking when back in Kholinar, a part of him challenged, what happened at the feast? Where were you when Gavilar was fighting for his life?

“We must use King Gavilar as a model for our own lives,” the ardent was saying. “We must remember that our lives are not our own. This world is but the skirmish to prepare us for the true war.”

“And after that?” Dalinar asked, looking up from Gavilar’s corpse.

The ardent squinted, adjusting her spectacles. “Highprince Dalinar?”

“After that, what?” Dalinar said. “After we win back the Tranquiline Halls? What then? No more war?”

Is that when we finally get to rest?

“You needn’t worry, Blackthorn,” Jevena said. “Once that war is won, the Almighty will certainly provide for you another conquest.” She smiled comfortingly, then moved on to the ritual sayings. A series of keteks, some traditional, others composed by female family members for the event. Ardents burned the poems as prayers in braziers.

Dalinar looked back down at his brother’s corpse, which stared upward, lifeless blue marbles replacing his eyes.

Brother, he’d said, follow the Codes tonight. There is something strange upon the winds.

Dalinar needed something to drink, storm it.

“You, always about dreams. My soul weeps. Farewell, weeping soul. My dreams … about, always, You.”

The poem slapped him harder than the others. He sought out Navani, and knew instantly that the ketek had been hers. Gazing straight ahead, she stood with one hand on Elhokar’s—King Elhokar’s—shoulder. So beautiful. Next to her, Jasnah stood with arms wrapped around herself, eyes red. Navani reached toward her, but Jasnah pulled away from the others and stalked off toward the palace proper.

Dalinar wished he could do the same, but instead drew himself to attention. It was over. He’d never have a chance to live up to Gavilar’s expectations. Dalinar would live the rest of his life as a failure to this man whom he had loved so dearly.

The hall grew still, quiet save for the crinkling sound of paper burning in the fires. The Soulcaster stood up, and old Jevena stepped hastily backward. She wasn’t comfortable with what was coming next. None of them were, judging by the shuffling feet, the coughs into hands.

The Soulcaster might have been male, might have been female. Hard to say, with that hood up over their face. The skin beneath was colored like granite, cracked and chipped, and seemed to glow from within. The Soulcaster regarded the corpse, head cocked, as if surprised to find a body here. They ran their fingers along Gavilar’s jaw, then brushed the hair off his forehead.

“The only part of you that is true,” the Soulcaster whispered, tapping a stone that had replaced one of the king’s eyes. Then, light emerged as the Soulcaster drew their hand from their pocket, revealing a set of gemstones bound into a fabrial.

Dalinar didn’t look away, despite how the light made his eyes water. He wished … he wished he’d taken a drink or two before coming. Was he really supposed to watch something like this while sober?

The Soulcaster touched Gavilar on the forehead, and the transformation happened instantly. One moment Gavilar was there. The next he had become a statue.

The Soulcaster slipped a glove onto their hand while other ardents hurried to remove the wires that had held Gavilar’s body in position. They used levers to tip him carefully forward until he was standing, holding a sword with point toward the ground, his other hand outstretched. He stared toward eternity, crown on his head, the curls of his beard and hair preserved delicately in the stone. A powerful pose; the mortuary sculptors had done a fantastic job.

The ardents pushed him back into an alcove, where he joined the lines of other monarchs—most of them highprinces of the Kholin princedom. He would be forever frozen here, the image of a perfect ruler in his prime. Nobody would think of him as he’d been that terrible night, broken from his fall, his grand dreams cut short by treason.

“I’ll have vengeance, Mother,” Elhokar whispered. “I’ll have it!” The young king spun toward the gathered lighteyes, standing before his father’s outstretched stone hand. “You’ve each come to me privately to give support. Well, I demand you swear it in public! Today, we make a pact to hunt those who did this. Today, Alethkar goes to war!”

He was greeted by stunned silence.

“I swear it,” Torol Sadeas said. “I swear to bring vengeance to the traitorous parshmen, Your Majesty. You can depend upon my sword.”