Oathbringer (The Stormlight Archive #3)

“Dalinar?” Kaladin asked, worried, jogging over. “What happened?”

“It is over, Captain,” Dalinar said. Then he smiled. So were they tears of joy? Why had he seemed so grieved? “It’s over.”





It becomes the responsibility of every man, upon realizing he lacks the truth, to seek it out.

—From The Way of Kings, postscript

Moash found it easy to transition from killing men to breaking apart rubble.

He used a pick to hack at pieces of fallen stone in the former east wing of the Kholinar palace, smashing fallen columns so they could be carried off by other workers. Nearby, the floor was still red with dried blood. That was where he’d killed Elhokar, and his new masters had ordered the blood to not be cleaned. They claimed that the death of a king was a thing to regard with reverence.

Shouldn’t Moash have felt pleasure? Or at least satisfaction? Instead, killing Elhokar had only made him feel … cold. Like a man who had hiked across half of Roshar with a caravan of stubborn chulls. At the top of the last hill, you didn’t feel satisfaction. You just felt tired. Maybe a sliver of relief at being done.

He slammed his pick into a fallen pillar. Near the end of the battle for Kholinar, the thunderclast had knocked down a large portion of the palace’s eastern gallery. Now, human slaves worked to clear out the rubble. The others would often break down crying, or work with hunched shoulders.

Moash shook his head, enjoying the peaceful rhythm of pick on stone.

A Fused strode past, covered in carapace armor as brilliant and wicked as Shardplate. There were nine orders of them. Why not ten?

“Over there,” the Fused said through an interpreter. He pointed at a section of wall. “Break this down.”

Moash wiped his brow, frowning as other slaves began work there. Why break down that wall? Wouldn’t it be needed to rebuild this portion of the palace?

“Curious, human?”

Moash jumped, startled to find a figure hovering down through the broken ceiling, swathed in black. Lady Leshwi still visited Moash, the man who had killed her. She was important among the singers, but not in a highprince sort of way. More like a field captain.

“I guess I am curious, Ancient Singer,” Moash said. “Is there a reason you’re ripping apart this section of the palace? More than just to clear away the rubble?”

“Yes. But you do not yet need to know why.”

He nodded, then returned to his work.

She hummed to a rhythm he associated with being pleased. “Your passion does you credit.”

“I have no passion. Just numbness.”

“You have given him your pain. He will return it, human, when you need it.”

That would be fine, so long as he could forget the look of betrayal he’d seen in Kaladin’s eyes.

“Hnanan wishes to speak with you,” the ancient one said. The name wasn’t fully a word. It was more a hummed sound, with specific beats. “Join us above.”

She flew off. Moash set aside his pick and followed in a more mundane manner, rounding to the front of the palace. Once away from the picks and the clatter of rocks, he could hear sobs and whimpers. Only the most destitute humans sheltered here, in the broken buildings near the palace.

Eventually, these would be rounded up and sent to work farms. For now, however, the grand city was a place of wails and heartache. The people thought the world had ended, but they were only half right. Their world had.

He entered the palace uncontested, and started up the stairwell. Fused didn’t need guards. Killing them was difficult, and even if you succeeded, they would simply be reborn at the next Everstorm, assuming a willing parshman could be found to take the burden.

Near the king’s chambers, Moash passed two Fused reading books in a library. They’d removed their lengthy coats, floating with bare feet peeking from loose, rippling trousers, toes pointed downward. He eventually found Hnanan out beyond the king’s balcony, hovering in the air, her train blowing and rippling in the wind beneath.

“Ancient Singer,” he said from the balcony. Though Hnanan was the equivalent of a highprince, they did not demand that Moash bow even to her. Apparently, by having killed one of their better fighters, he had obtained a level of respect.

“You did well,” she said, speaking Alethi, her voice thickly accented. “You felled a king in this palace.”

“King or slave, he was an enemy to me and mine.”

“I have called myself wise,” she said, “and felt pride for Leshwi at picking you out. For years, my brother, sister, and I will boast of having chosen you.” She looked to him. “Odium has a command for you. This is rare for a human.”

“Speak it.”

“You have killed a king,” she said, removing something from a sheath within her robes. A strange knife, with a sapphire set into the pommel. The weapon was of a bright golden metal, so light it was almost white. “Would you do the same to a god?”

*

Navani left through the sally port in the Thaylen City wall, and ran across the broken field, heedless of the calls of soldiers who scrambled after her. She’d waited as long as was reasonable to let the enemy army withdraw.

Dalinar walked with help from Lopen and Captain Kaladin, one under each arm. He towed jets of exhaustionspren like a swarm. Navani took him in a powerful embrace anyway. He was the Blackthorn. He’d survive a forceful hug.

Kaladin and Lopen hovered nearby. “He’s mine,” she said to them.

They nodded, and didn’t move.

“People need your help inside,” she said. “I can handle him, boys.”

Finally they flew off, and Navani tried to get under Dalinar’s arm. He shook his head, still holding her in the embrace, a large stone—wrapped in his coat—held in one hand and pressing against her back. What was that?

“I think I know why the memories came back,” he whispered. “Odium was going to make me remember once I faced him. I needed to learn to stand up again. All my pain these last two months was a blessing.”

She held to him on that open field of rock, broken by the thunderclasts, littered with men who wailed toward the empty sky, screaming for what they’d done, demanding to know why they’d been abandoned.

Dalinar resisted Navani’s attempts to tug him toward the wall. Instead, teary eyed, he kissed her. “Thank you for inspiring me.”

“Inspiring you?”

He released her and held up his arm, which was strapped with the clock and painrial she’d given him. It had cracked open, exposing the gemstones. “It reminded me,” he said. “Of how we make fabrials.”

He lethargically unwrapped his uniform jacket from around a large ruby. It glowed with a bizarre light, deep and dark. Somehow, it seemed to be trying to pull the light around it in.

“I want you to keep this safe for me,” Dalinar said. “Study it. Find out why this gemstone specifically was capable of holding one of the Unmade. Don’t break it though. We dare not let it out again.”