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Read Wind and Truth by Brandon Sanderson: Chapters 16, 17 and 18
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Wind and Truth
Read Wind and Truth by Brandon Sanderson: Chapters 16, 17 and 18
Read new chapters from the new Stormlight Archive book every Monday, leading up to its release on December 6th
By Brandon Sanderson
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Published on September 30, 2024
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Brandon Sanderson’s epic Stormlight Archive fantasy series will continue with Wind and Truth, the concluding volume of the first major arc of this ten-book series. A defining pillar of Sanderson’s “Cosmere” fantasy book universe, this newest installment of The Stormlight Archive promises huge developments for the world of Roshar, the struggles of the Knights Radiant (and friends!), and for the Cosmere at large.
Reactor is serializing the new book from now until its release date on December 6, 2024. A new installment will go live every Monday at 11 AM ET, along with read-along commentary from Stormlight beta readers and Cosmere experts Lyndsey Luther, Drew McCaffrey, and Paige Vest. You can find every chapter and commentary post published so far in the Wind and Truth index.
We’re thrilled to also include chapters from the audiobook edition of Wind and Truth, read by Michael Kramer and Kate Reading. Click here to jump straight to the audio excerpt!
Note: Title art is not final and will be updated as soon as the final cover is revealed.
Chapter 16: Vague Promises and Hints
They had left behind family and hereditary home, something many would find unconscionable.
—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable
Shallan lay on her back on the floor underneath the shower, letting the water wash over her. She’d turned it down to a sprinkle, like the riddens of a storm, to rain on her bare skin and tap on the stones around her. The air was humid from the steam, so she breathed it in thick.
She could have lain there forever, enjoying a satisfaction and a fullness she could never have captured in a painting. This fragment of time was about the sensation more than the description. The knowledge that she’d opened herself to Adolin, and he had accepted her: flaws, issues, and dreams alike.
Water, stone, and steam…
…the contentment of knowing that all was—briefly—right…
…lazy joyspren, swirling around her like blue leaves…
This was her reward. She let it linger, as Adolin closed a trunk outside and called his goodbye.
With a sigh, Shallan rolled onto her stomach, water beating against her back, and was greeted by a collection of soap bars, cleansing stones, and other bathing paraphernalia. A dozen of them all in a cluster, glowing faintly silver, bouncing up and down.
“Shallan! Shallan! Shallan!”
“You guys were… watching?” she asked the creationspren.
“Shallan! Shallan! Shallan!”
Well, nice to have a cheering section, she supposed. She looked up and found Pattern dimpling the stone of the wall.
“Don’t say it,” she told him, climbing to her feet.
“What?” he said. “It’s absolutely allowed, even encouraged now.”
She smiled and finished rinsing, then turned off the water, whispering a little thank-you to the tower as she toweled off. She then searched the wall by Pattern for any sign of Testament.
Nothing. They might still be bonded, but it wasn’t enough to pull Testament through. Shallan’s good mood faded as she imagined her poor spren sitting alone on the other side. I’ll fix it, she thought. I’ll find a way.
First she had work to do. She put on one of Veil’s outfits and crossed the main sitting room. She and Adolin had a prime location with a large balcony adorned with planters, which she stepped out onto, Pattern having taken his customary place on her long white coat.
“Well?” she asked.
One of the planters stood up, Stormlight steaming off as the Lightweaving vanished, revealing a short, bearded man. Gaz no longer wore an eye patch—he’d healed from that wound. But he often rubbed at his eye.
“Got a crook in my neck,” Gaz grumbled, stretching. “But I didn’t spot anything odd. Red, what about you?”
Another planter stood up, a lanky man in bright red suspenders emerging. “Nothing. If they’re going to strike, they’re smart enough not to be obvious.”
Shallan leaned back against the wall and folded her arms. She nodded to Red, who took out a spanreed and clicked it on and off. They didn’t bother writing things out, instead using the flashing ruby—intended for indicating one was done writing—as the actual communication. Windrunners had started developing a code for that.
The door to her rooms opened, and two more of her team entered from the hallway outside, where they’d been hidden. Stargyle—a tall, handsome man with a ready grin—shook his head. Darcira followed, one of the newer members of the Unseen Court. No one had so much as scouted Shallan’s rooms, best any of them could tell. The five of them gathered around her front room table.
“Wit sends word,” Gaz said, pulling over a chair. She could see his Cryptic riding on his shoulder. All of her agents were full Lightweavers, having spoken the First Ideal and at least one truth. None of those here were Shardbearers yet, but Gaz and Red were close. “Your brothers are safe, but Wit wouldn’t even tell me where he took them.”
“We can trust Wit,” Shallan said.
“He won’t join us,” Stargyle said, laying out sketches, “despite being a Lightweaver now. He did give us these.”
“No Lightweaver has to join us,” Red said. “In fact, we’re basically full, ain’t we, Veil?”
Shallan nodded, not wanting to explain the nuance regarding Veil at the moment. Regardless, Red was right. There would be other Lightweavers, but they could form their own family. This group—the Unseen Court—was hers, and she wasn’t going to let it grow unwieldy. Kaladin barely knew the names of half the Windrunners these days.
There were twelve pictures, sketches of the Ghostbloods that Wit had identified. Most of these faces were familiar, but a few were new. Shallan examined two in particular, a woman and a man who wore hoods and masks. Shorter people, with a foreign look to their clothing. Iyatil, master of this cell of Ghostbloods, was an offworlder who always wore a strange wooden mask. Neither of these depictions were of her.
A note at the bottom said, Looks like Iyatil has called in offworlder reinforcements. Watch them. They’re dangerous.
“I scouted the tower earlier, as you said,” Stargyle told her. “I spotted these two in the atrium, but they also caught me watching them. Neither of us moved against one another, and I sensed tension in the way they retreated. It’s like… we’re all waiting for the spark that will light the fire.”
Her eyes lingered on the picture of Mraize, wearing a refined suit, his face ripped by old scars. He had been her teacher. A brutal, manipulative one—but he had seen things in her she hadn’t recognized in herself. He’d pushed her, yes, but also encouraged her. Now they were at last truly enemies. She’d known it was coming, and she hated some of what he represented, like locking Lift in a cage, as she’d heard from Red.
Shallan had chosen her side, but it troubled her that—as seemed inevitable—she was again opposed to her mentor. Her mother, her father, Testament, Tyn, now Mraize. How many people who had cared for her would she have to kill? She let Radiant take over, removing her hat and bleeding her hair to yellow so the others would recognize the transformation.
“So far as we know,” Radiant said, “I have the secret they needed from Kelek—while they do not. They’ll try to extract that information from me. This exposes us to danger, but exposes them as well—because we know their next move.”
“Attacking us,” Gaz said. “Or your family.”
“You are my family, Gaz,” Radiant said. She narrowed her eyes at the sheets. “Fortunately, Shallan has a plan. We’re going to form a strike team.”
“A strike team to do what?” Gaz asked. “Radiant, I’m not afraid to fight, but they have resources from another storming planet and they’re led by some kind of immortal ghost. I don’t know how we fight them.”
Shallan bled back in for a moment and met Gaz’s stare. “Like I said, Gaz, we have the advantage. They need Mishram’s prison for some reason, but we know where it can be found. If we reach it before they do, we can use it as a bargaining chip to secure our safety.”
“There’s more,” Red said. “We’re Radiants. We have something they never will: we’ve spoken truth to ourselves.”
Gaz rubbed his chin, then nodded. “You mentioned armor earlier. Is it true? You have the next Ideal?”
“Yes,” she said, and made armor form around her, lifting her half an inch into the air as the boots encased her feet.
“Neat,” Red said. “You have armor, so now we all have armor.”
“That’s not how it works, Red,” Darcira said, wagging a sketch pencil at him. “We don’t get her powers. Storms, you’re not even her squire anymore—you have your own spren!”
“Yeah, but you heard what Stormblessed did,” Red said, standing up and holding out his arms. “He can share his armor! Make it swoop in and protect people! I’ve always wanted Plate. Can I borrow it, Shallan?”
She hesitated. She’d… only just earned it.
Darcira tapped her sketchpad. “It would be good to know if that works, Brightness.”
A reasonable point. Storming former ardent and her scientific mind. “Fine,” Shallan said. “How do I do it?”
“It seems like it just kind of worked for Kaladin,” Red said.
“Everyone’s talking about it,” Darcira said. “Kaladin flew around. You know, like they do. And his armor—made of windspren—swept here and there, enveloping other soldiers when needed.”
“Storming lordship bridgeman,” Gaz muttered, “and his storming heroism.”
They glanced at him.
“He does it just to make me feel bad,” Gaz said.
“He acts like a hero,” Red said, amused, “because it annoys you. Really.”
“Yup,” Gaz said. “Everyone should be grateful to me. If I hadn’t shown those bridgemen tough love, they would never have grown up to be such nauseating paragons of self-righteousness.”
“Weren’t you crying the other month,” Red said, “because of what you did to them?”
“I was drunk,” Gaz said. “You can’t trust a man when he’s drunk. He’ll accidentally say things he ain’t ready to say yet. Anyway, weren’t we going to try out that armor?”
Shallan considered, and pictured the scene. Kaladin with Light streaming off him, sending his armor out to protect.
Sad to miss the invasion, Veil noted.
By all accounts it was awful, Shallan replied.
Yeah, but how nifty would it have been to skulk around the tower while it was under enemy rule?
Hearing her voice, even only in the back of Shallan’s mind, was comforting. It had seemed, right when she’d reintegrated, that Veil would be gone completely, but what good would healing be if it meant losing part of herself—a part she loved—forever? More and more, she was feeling that reintegration wasn’t about rejecting Veil or Radiant, but embracing them and acknowledging in a healthy way that different parts of her had different needs, different goals, different ideas.
For her, this was what healing felt like. Not losing control to her personalities, but also making their strengths part of her. But, back to the matter at hand. She waved her hands at Red and commanded the armor. Go to him.
Shallan! the armor predictably replied.
Him. Go protect him. That guy.
She felt only confusion in response. So, she took Red by the arm and imagined the armor forming around him.
Do that.
Shallan!
The armor emerged around Red, and she didn’t miss that it appeared as she pictured it: with swirls of color like ribbons of wet paint, poured together, all in shades of metallic red. The shape was also slightly different—sleeker, like it could be worn underneath a coat, rather than hulking like Adolin’s Shardplate.
Red laughed in excitement, puffing with an explosive awespren, his voice echoing in the helm. Shallan stepped back. And Red stood there. Motionless. Arms out.
“Um…” Red’s voice said. “I can’t move…”
“You can’t?” Gaz said.
Move, Shallan commanded the armor. It burst apart and vanished.
They tried again. Again, once she stepped away, Red was left motionless. He couldn’t so much as bend his finger.
“Shardplate needs power to move,” Darcira said. “So… maybe it’s not powered?”
“So why does it work for the Windrunners?” Red said, his voice muffled. “This really isn’t fair.”
“I think it’s brilliant,” Gaz said. “Shallan, if we tip him over, do you think he’ll just lie there until we get back from breakfast?”
Shallan dismissed the armor, smiling. Shallan? the voices asked. They… were embarrassed.
It’s fine, she projected to them. You’re new to this.
Maybe she could get them some kind of tutoring from… um… other bits of armor?
“Well, I guess no free armor for me,” Red said. “I’ll have to go back to whimpering at night about my dark secrets until I can find a way past them.”
“Is your dark secret that your sense of humor is awful?” Gaz said.
“Nah, that’s out in the open,” Red said, settling at the table. “So… are we actually going to take on the Ghostbloods? Directly?”
Shallan checked the others. They nodded. Even Gaz.
“How do we begin?” Darcira asked.
“Mraize always thinks he has the upper hand,” Radiant said. “He thrives on keeping people off-balance by dangling information like bait. The best way to nullify his advantage is to uncover his secrets. There’s so much we’re ignorant about. Why do they want Mishram’s prison? Why did they get involved so deeply in our politics? So we’re going to find the answers.” She glanced down at the table, at Mraize’s smirking scarred face. “We’re going to do something they don’t think is possible: we’re going to steal those secrets.”
“All right,” Gaz said. “But how?”
“First,” she said, “we need to find their base…”
* * *
“What are you doing here?” Dalinar demanded as he caught up to the woman… the god. Damnation, this was her. He’d last seen her in a darkened grove, but her face was exactly the same.
“I go where I please,” she said, sounding amused, a few lifespren drifting around her. “Should I not?”
As before, there was the faintest hint of the sound of crumbling stone to her voice. Her clothing looked as if she had grown the dress from delicate webs of something fine and earthy, and it in places merged back with her skin. Neither effect was as dramatic as it had been in the Valley, perhaps to not draw attention. But he was shaken nonetheless. A Fused trick? Could it…
No. Fused powers wouldn’t work in the tower. This was Cultivation. He stopped beside the metal railing, holding it for support.
“I remember you,” he said.
“I know. You wrote it in your book. I take great pains to remain secret, Dalinar, and you just vomited it all up on a page.” She shook her head.
“Are you here to help?” he said. “Can you tell me how to defeat Odium? Can I use my Bondsmith powers?”
“No, I cannot,” she said. People passed on the balcony, bowing to him or saluting, but ignoring her. She, who was the greater of the two.
“Why not?” he asked. “Why not explain?”
“Haven’t you learned yet? You must find the answers yourself to respect their meaning.”
“Pardon,” he said, “but that’s a load of crem. If you give me the answers, I absolutely promise to respect them.”
She smiled. “Have you wondered why you are a Bondsmith?”
“To unite them,” he said.
“Yes. And what does that mean?”
“Many things, depending on interpretation,” he replied. Then he sighed. “Please just give me an answer?”
She idled beside the railing, tapping it, gazing down at the people of Urithiru below. “Have you ever known Odium to be frightened?”
Had he?
Yes. Once during a crash of transcendent power. A time when he’d sworn he’d heard Evi’s voice, and had become his own man, freed from the past. A time when he’d stared a god in the eyes, slammed his hands together, and merged three realms.
I am Unity.
“Once,” Dalinar said softly.
“I have once as well,” she said. “One time, other than when you faced him. It is deep in the past.” She idly held up her hand, lifespren swirling and playing around it. “You need to take a journey, Dalinar Kholin. A dangerous one, but the path to defeating Odium is not through your powers alone. It is through understanding. You need to see the history of this world, live it.”
“Visions?” he asked. “Like I’ve seen before?”
“Greater,” she said. “Where is Honor?”
“Dead.”
“Tanavast—the Vessel that once held Honor—is dead, but the power remains. Somewhere. It’s a conundrum that few scholars even know to ponder upon. None know what became of Honor’s power. Have you any guesses?”
“It’s the spren, maybe,” Dalinar said.
“Some say that Honor was Splintered by Odium when he killed Tanavast—as he did to others before—becoming the spren, as the power of a god left alone will begin to think.” She shook her head. “But they’re wrong. The spren existed before Tanavast’s death. They are of him, but are not the core of his power. It still exists.” She looked him in the eyes. “It is the power and substance of the visions you were shown, starting years ago. It seeks for men to see their heritage, as it searches for a new Vessel to hold it.”
“Wait,” Dalinar said, a cold shock starting at the base of his skull and washing through him, making him grip the banister. “Wait. What are you saying? That… someone could…?”
“Honor’s power needs a host,” she said. “Whether or not that is you, and whether or not that solves your problems, remain to be seen. However, I’m here to tell you that years ago, you started on a path—and touched the power of Honor each highstorm when you saw a vision. The path to defeating Odium is the same one you’re walking. You simply need to see better, farther, and deeper into the past.”
“Could you not fight him?”
“I have my own battles,” she said, turning to trail away. “I cannot fight yours, but you now know where the power hides. Seek the Spiritual Realm, where gods dwell. You have the ability to get there, perhaps even the ability to return. There you will receive the final truths of the Heralds, the Radiants, and Honor himself. Go and seek it, Dalinar Kholin, if you would finish this journey.”
She walked a short distance, until darkness swallowed her, and she vanished in a pop of lifespren. Dalinar walked back to the others, who were surrounded by shockspren. Without a word, he pointed upward. Sigzil Lashed him and he went soaring, two Windrunners joining him. Only when he was already in the air did he realize he’d left his bodyguard behind yet again. Well, Colot could take the lift.
The Spiritual Realm. The powers of gods.
Stormfather, he thought as he soared higher, did you sense that conversation?
He felt a rumbling in the back of his mind. Confusion.
Cultivation was here, Dalinar said. Just now.
What? the Stormfather said, suddenly present fully in Dalinar’s mind, making the air warp nearby. Incredible. She almost never leaves her hiding place.
You didn’t sense her?
She hides from Odium, he sent. Which means none of us can sense her either. She must have come to see what was happening with the Sibling. Cultivation was ever fond of them.
Cultivation told me, Dalinar said, that Honor’s power still exists in the Spiritual Realm—that it is the substance of the visions I’ve seen. She says I should seek answers there.
The Stormfather rumbled softly. A dangerous kind of thunder, distant, but warning of imminent violence.
Would you take that step, Dalinar? the spren asked. Do you seek to lose yourself in the past?
They reached the top floors of Urithiru. Dalinar—having done this dozens of times—knew to grab the railing and swing over into the staging room where the lifts arrived. He held to the railing until Sigzil canceled his Lashing, letting Dalinar settle to the ground.
I seek only to protect my people, Dalinar thought. He gripped the banister, looking down hundreds of feet. A vertigo-inspiring sight. He’d felt as though he’d been standing at a precipice for years now, a single step from demise. Once, if he’d trembled before a battle, it had been with excitement. Now it was because of the daunting realization that everything rested upon him. By his design.
If he lost this contest…
I can see that you are nervous, the Stormfather said. Good. Confidence in a mortal should only go so far. What else did Cultivation tell you?
Just that the Spiritual Realm has answers, Dalinar said. That I can get there with my powers. That I should seek the truths of history, and of Honor.
The Stormfather rumbled, sounding annoyed by this.
What? Dalinar asked.
I’ve shown you what you need, he replied. Too much more is dangerous.
Wait, Dalinar thought. There is more? Could I see how the Heralds were chosen? How people came to Roshar? Could I see what caused Honor to die?
The Stormfather rumbled softly, and sounded even angrier.
Cultivation indicated I should seek these answers, Dalinar said.
I did not think she would interfere except in her usual way, the Stormfather said. That of making tiny nudges that require decades to mature. I will have to think on it. Her suggestion is dangerous, Dalinar. Too dangerous. Take care.
With that, the Stormfather turned his attention elsewhere. The shimmering to the air vanished, and the spren’s presence retreated to a faint awareness in the very back of his mind.
Storms. He was tired of vague promises and hints. He was tired of gods moving among them unnoticed. He wanted answers. He trudged toward the meeting room, joined by the two Windrunners. Inside, he saw that Jasnah had indeed beaten him to the top—early for the meeting as he was. Wit sat on the floor at the rear, holding a scroll of paper in one hand and some kind of white bone in the other.
“What’s he doing?” Dalinar asked Jasnah.
“Something’s wrong,” she explained, arms folded as she watched him. “He had an encounter with Odium that he only just remembered—which means Odium altered his memories. That, for reasons he hasn’t explained, makes him think there are loopholes in the contract that Odium is exploiting.”
“There can’t be,” Dalinar said. “Odium promised me—confirmed true by Wit himself—that he wouldn’t use any loopholes. That the soul of the contract was more important.”
Jasnah shook her head. “We’ll get answers from Wit—if we’re lucky—on his timeline, not ours.” She seemed expressly annoyed with Wit.
“Well,” Dalinar said, getting out battle maps and waving in the generals waiting outside, “let’s get an accurate accounting of our troop placements so we can be ready to present to the monarchs. We have much to organize and plan…”
Art by Ben McSweeney © Dragonsteel, LLC
Chapter 17: A Tough Kind of Love
What I learned from their glyphs scribbled in dust trembled my soul: it was because of me, and the stories they’d heard of my teachings, that they had left.
—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable
The first signs of light shone through the atrium as Adolin walked to the lifts. After his time with Shallan, he’d made a detour to check on Gallant, and would arrive at the meeting right on schedule.
Many common people were being forced to wait in line for lifts until the monarchs had gathered. He spotted someone unexpected among them.
“Colot?” he asked, noting the Cobalt Guardsman.
“Adolin,” Colot said, looking embarrassed. He was lighteyed, with yellow-green eyes. Former Windrunner squire. Many squires had to wait months to get spren, which were in short supply—but most were happy to do so. He didn’t know why Colot had given up and left before getting one.
“You all right?” Adolin asked him.
“Fine. Your father just managed to give me the slip again.”
Adolin groaned softly. “I thought he was getting better at bringing his guards.”
“I don’t think he did it intentionally. He simply got distracted.” Colot gave a shrug.
“I’ll talk to him,” Adolin said.
“Please don’t, Adolin. Bodyguards are nothing more than a bother for him these days. Just…” Colot took a deep breath. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find my way up once the important people are taken care of.”
“Nah, you’re coming with me,” Adolin said, pulling him out of the line. Adolin spotted a lift being loaded with a group of figures in colorful Azish clothing, soldiers keeping everyone else at a safe distance. Adolin gave a shout and ran for the lift, towing Colot behind him. Before the attendants could close the gate, the emperor himself—swathed in thick robes and wearing a headdress several feet wide—raised his hand, pausing them.
Adolin and Colot hopped onto the lift, and Adolin nodded to the emperor in thanks. It was crowded full of Azish dignitaries. Wherever Emperor Yanagawn went, he had to bring viziers, servants, functionaries, servants to the functionaries…
The lift started creeping up the wall of the atrium. Then it picked up speed. Within seconds, they were going so fast that Adolin felt the wind of it—something that had never happened before the tower’s awakening. At this rate, the ride to the top would take barely a few minutes.
“Highprince Adolin,” Yanagawn said from the center of his retinue. “Might I have a word?”
Nearby, several of the viziers glanced at one another, though none said anything. The young emperor wasn’t technically supposed to speak to anyone beneath him, but he and Adolin had interacted on and off during the year since the Battle of Thaylen Field. Yanagawn had started talking to Adolin directly.
“Your Excellency?” Adolin said, stepping closer as several guards reluctantly made space for him.
“You saw the armies advancing on my homeland,” Yanagawn said. “The report is that they are… vast?”
“It’s a pretty decent invasion force,” Adolin admitted. “Maybe fifteen or twenty thousand.”
“We have a fraction of that in the capital,” Yanagawn said. “Most of our armies are out on campaign.” He shook his head, seated in his chair amid them all. They carried a seat for him wherever he went—and sometimes they carried him upon it. “We thought we’d be safe after driving the enemy back in Emul. Even with the contest, will it ever end?”
“I wish I knew, Your Excellency.”
Yanagawn was in many ways baffling to Adolin—a figurehead more than a king. Like a Soulcast statue, powerful in station, but somehow personally impotent. Jasnah thought this was a good thing; Adolin had tried to follow her explanations why. It made sense when she talked about checks on absolute power, but Jasnah could make anything sound reasonable. It was one of her gifts.
“You fight directly for your people,” Yanagawn said softly to him. “With sword in hand. Are you ever frightened you won’t be strong enough, Highprince?”
“You can call me Adolin, if you’d like.”
“I… cannot offer you the same courtesy.”
“I understand,” Adolin said. “And in answer to your question: yes. I get storming terrified that I’ll fail again. Kholinar fell when I was sent to save it. Not a day passes that I haven’t thought about that.”
It was a constant pain—like a stretched muscle that refused to heal. The type of stealth pain that didn’t ache until you moved the wrong way, and suddenly it flared up—a sharp spike in your side. He would remember activating the Oathgate. Leaving wounded soldiers behind, an entire city full of people that he was supposed to have rescued. His cousin Elhokar dead on the stones…
Yeah, that one storming hurt.
“How do you bear it?” Yanagawn asked.
“Exercise helps,” Adolin said. “Training with my sword, clearing my mind.”
“Sometimes I think it is a blessing that my station doesn’t let me fight,” Yanagawn said. Storms, his Alethi was so good. He had an accent, yes, but he’d only been practicing for a year or so. “I do not make the tactical decisions, and so the burden of failure is not my own. At other times, I find myself a coward.”
“It’s not cowardly to know your own limitations, Excellency,” Adolin said.
“Maybe,” Yanagawn said, then smiled fondly. “Do you know my background, Adolin?”
“I believe you were a darkeyes… er, whatever you call it… before your elevation.”
“A commoner, yes,” he said. “A thief. And not a very good one at that.”
More side glances from the viziers. Noura, their foremost, stepped closer. “Pardon, Excellency and Highness, but that is the path Yaezir put you upon, and is how you were to be manifest to us via miracle.”
“That doesn’t change what I was, Noura.”
“Yes, Excellency,” she said. “But dwelling on what you were, instead of what you are, never gets a person far.”
Adolin nodded. He could never have lived with so many attendants, but Noura… she was at least thoughtful.
“I mention it,” Yanagawn said, “not to dwell upon it, but to remember a time when I was commonly put into dangerous situations. I did not handle it well then. I often wonder… how would I handle it now?” He looked to Noura, and Adolin saw in him the man—not the youth. He was older than Adolin had been when he’d first won his Shardblade.
This fellow, Adolin thought, needs a good session training with the sword.
It wasn’t Adolin’s place to say so, not here. So he held his tongue as the lift reached the top, and they stepped out. It was time to decide how they were going to face this threat.
* * *
Radiant leaned back against the wall of the lift atrium’s ground floor. Courtesy of Shallan’s Lightweaving, she wore the face of a crem scraper. He was a man with long features, drooping as if waxen.
Adolin got on the lift with the Azish contingent, while Isom—the Lightweaver she’d tasked with tailing him—gave a covert signal, indicating he’d take the next lift up. Shallan had been worried when Isom reported Adolin hadn’t gone straight to the meeting. Of course he’d gone to check on his horse. Again.
She’d already sent Stargyle up to join the monarchs, officially representing the Unseen Court, so Adolin should be well guarded. Besides, surely the enemy wouldn’t try something in the middle of a meeting of kings, queens, and a bunch of Radiants.
You’ve done what you can there, Veil said.
Now her plans depended on one of her Lightweavers being able to tail a Ghostblood to their current hideout. Gaz was with her, wearing the face of a young woman who sold rockbud flowers in the market. One of his better sketches—and better disguises, as it made use of his shorter height.
“No reports of Ghostbloods tailing any of our people today,” Gaz said softly. His Lightweaving had progressed far enough that his voice was starting to modulate as well as his image. “They haven’t even attacked the horse. You think they’re waiting to make us placid?”
Radiant considered. “No. They don’t want to draw attention. A petty strike at someone Shallan loves would give them a moment of satisfaction, but would bring the full weight of Dalinar’s anger down on them. Mraize is more subtle than that.”
Gaz grunted, a sound that did not match the face he was wearing. He needed more practice. To that end, now that she had checked on Adolin, Radiant gave way to Shallan, who slouched further, shoved her hands in her pockets, and started chewing on her lip—all very un-Shallan-like behaviors—to help sell the disguise.
“No threats,” Shallan whispered with a man’s voice. “No contact. I’d hoped we could stop a strike against one of us, then tail the perpetrators. This silence is unnerving. We need to find out what they’re up to, Gaz.”
“We have agents watching tower entrances and major corridors,” Gaz said. “But even with our paid informants, I can’t guarantee we’ll pick up a Ghostblood’s trail.”
Shallan nodded, as she chewed her lip, thoughtful. “Ghostbloods won’t be able to stay away from today’s developments. They didn’t interfere with Adolin, but they’re watching. They’ll be doing the same for Dalinar, Navani, and anyone else they think might know something. Eventually one of us will spot someone to follow.”
Gaz nodded slowly, relaxing against the wall with a leisurely air. Shob, one of the other Lightweavers, would be here in a few minutes with his report. In the past, Gaz had scratched at his stubble and spent half his time nervously checking his former blind spot. Both actions were far less common while he was in disguise, as he’d tempered the behaviors.
“You’re getting better at this,” Shallan noted.
“Thanks,” he said. “I needed something to do with my time.”
“How’s the gambling?”
He shrugged.
“How much in debt are you this week?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“That’s an improvement.”
“Only because I managed to stay away completely,” he said. “That advice you gave about giving myself a budget and only losing that much?”
“Yes?” she said, eager.
“It was storming useless,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Oh.”
“If I start gambling, I stop caring,” he said. “That’s always been the problem. It’s why I wound up in the bridge crews, under the thumb of a pair of petty lighteyes. It’s why I ended up deserting. No budget will work for me. Just gotta do somethin’ else.”
“Is that difficult?” she asked, thinking of her brother who had the same problem. Maybe what worked for Gaz would help Jushu.
“Yeah. I used to spend all my days planning how to score,” he said. “Strategies—most of them useless. I’d build up in my mind how each play would be one gust in what became a storm of winnings, digging me out of my problems. Each win felt good, like I was taking a step toward being worth something.”
Disgustspren, like orange corkscrews drilling downward, appeared around him as he continued. “It’s not the gambling itself that got me. It’s that I built up how it would feel to win, only to come crashing down each time, leaving me feeling like I’d missed out on something I was owed. That made me dull to everything else. Till I was a man without a heart, sending boys off to die each day on those bridge runs.”
“And then…”
“I found you all,” he said. “People who care about me.”
“And the power of being loved,” Shallan said softly, a smile rising on her lips, “gave you the strength to resist.”
“What?” He belted out a laugh, half his voice, half that of his illusion. “What kind of storming crem is that! The power of being loved? Ha! No, Stargyle and Red went to every gambling den in the whole storming tower and threatened the folks that run them! Said if anyone let me in, Stargyle would rip their toenails off and wear them as a necklace. When I came by, the staff wouldn’t even talk to me!”
“Well,” she said, “that is the power of being loved. Simply, um, a different hue.”
“A tough kind of love.”
“A toe-uf kind of love.”
He looked at her.
“Toe,” she said. “For feet. Toenails.”
He just kept staring at her.
“Hey, I’m out of practice,” she said. “There was this whole thing with another personality almost manifesting, and it didn’t leave time for witticisms. Anyway, remind me to send Red and Stargyle a thank-you note.”
“Storming fools,” Gaz grumbled. “But it worked. After a while, my mind found other ways to spend its time. The work we do, that’s got more of a real thrill to it: the plans, the watching, the tailing. Now the strategies I think of are actually accomplishing something.” He checked his belt, where one of their spanreeds was blinking. “Damnation. That’s Shob. He’s spotted a Ghostblood. You were right.”
“I always am.” She paused. “Except with gambling advice.”
“And jokes.”
“My jokes are incredible. They might need to be honed a little, but well, even a dull knife can kill someone.”
He ran his hand through his fake hair. “That explains so much…”
“It does?”
“If you push hard enough with a dull knife…”
“It can still be painful.”
“And if you keep trying with bad jokes…”
“The same.” She hesitated. “Wait. That’s not what I meant.”
He grinned. “Let’s go see what Shob found.”
Chapter 18: An Exception to the Rules
They’d gone to seek a land some told them was mythical.
—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable
Adolin and the Azish emperor left most of the attendants in the antechamber as they joined the meeting. By tradition, Yanagawn picked up his own seat and carried it in, and Adolin did the same, grabbing one from outside. Navani and Dalinar liked the symbolism.
Inside, Adolin did a quick count of those in attendance, and saw he and Yanagawn were last. His father and aunt were there, as were Jasnah and Queen Fen. A few Radiant representatives, including Sigzil for the Windrunners and Stargyle for the Lightweavers, were placing their seats. There were also a couple of the lesser kings—or “primes” as they called them—from the Azish Empire. The Mink had come as well—the short Herdazian who was their key strategist. And possibly, following the fall of his kingdom, Herdaz’s ranking lighteyes. Even if he was actually darkeyed.
The meeting was rounded out by three other Alethi highprinces, a group of scribes, and several generals and important leaders—like Prince Kmakl and Noura the vizier. And of course there was Wit, sitting in the corner with a scroll across his lap. Aunt Navani waved, and all the gathered emotion spren in the room flew out—to not distract. Adolin closed the door. Maybe he should have greeted his father, whom he hadn’t seen in weeks. He glanced toward Dalinar.
No. After how they’d parted, they’d do the proper thing: ignore it and let it fester.
Mere seconds after he’d closed the door, there was a knock on it. Adolin peeked, then pulled it all the way open as one of the guards gestured to an older Reshi man wearing a loose robe that showed a powerful chest and a strong build. Adolin thought he was one of the leaders of their islands who had been visiting the tower these last few months.
They’d never invited him to any of their meetings. The man didn’t ask; he simply picked up a chair and stood outside, waiting with his son, who often wore Thaylen clothing.
Adolin glanced into the chamber. This man was king to only a few hundred, less powerful in his sphere than a lower Alethi landowner. He was Radiant—the sole Dustbringer left in the tower—but not many Radiants got to join the meeting.
There was silence for a moment before the Mink spoke. “We have a saying, in Herdaz,” he said. “No cousin is so distant they stop being family. A king of a small land is still a king.”
“Please, enter,” Dalinar said, nodding and waving to the Reshi king. “Though I warn you, much of what we discuss might be confusing without prior context.”
The man said nothing, carrying his chair and placing it at the back of the room, with several of the lesser Azish primes. He sat with a regal air—and honestly, Adolin doubted he spoke much Alethi. His presence seemed symbolic. Adolin closed the door again.
“That’s it,” Fen said. “Everyone is here. Can we finally begin? My kingdom is facing an entire fleet.”
“Mine,” Yanagawn said, “is about to be invaded through a portal into the heart of my city! And sooner than yours!”
“The Everstorm can bring the enemy fleet to my city in just a day,” Fen said. “We saw that last time!”
“Please,” Dalinar said. “We will get to everyone’s defenses. First, let’s establish where our forces currently stand.”
“I agree,” Fen said. “But I do want to make a point, Dalinar. This is your fault. You should have insisted that the borders freeze the moment the deal was struck.”
She was right, of course, but this was how it was with Adolin’s father. Dalinar was a great man, yes, but he was confident in his greatness. Which led him to assume he could solve any problem himself.
“I’m sorry, Fen,” Dalinar said. “I’m doing my best.”
“Your best is going to see my kingdom conquered while you protect yours! You practically ensured war these ten days.”
Silence. Eyes condemning. This is what you deserve, Father, Adolin thought, feeling the room turn—like spears lowered at a captured enemy—against Dalinar. You always barrel forward. Doing whatever you want. Consequences be storming damned. Like you did years ago, killing my mother. And you never bothered to tell me. You—
“You did well, Dalinar Kholin,” Yanagawn said. “We agreed to let you stand for us, and you found us a solution. Thank you.”
Adolin frowned, looking at the Azish emperor. His homeland was facing invasion. Why was he so calm?
“Because of you,” Yanagawn continued, “we have a chance. The enemy can be reborn again and again, but with the contest, peace is actually possible.”
“I failed you in the short term,” Dalinar said. “Armies are coming for your homeland.”
“As they were three days ago,” Yanagawn said. “And the weeks before that. All that has changed is that you have ensured there is an end in sight. Yes, the contract could have been a little better, but I think every Azish person in this room can admit that even with important documents, you always miss something.”
“Well that’s storming true,” Sigzil said, laughing.
“You’re right, Yanagawn,” Fen said with a grumble. “Dalinar, I was too harsh. We did agree to let you make the decision, and you did all you could. I shouldn’t grouse about what could have been, but my homeland only just started to recover from the last attack.”
“We merely need to hold out, Fen,” Yanagawn said. “For eight more days. Then we have peace.”
Storms. With that, the tone of the room changed again. Or perhaps Adolin hadn’t been reading it correctly in the first place. People nodded. Fen sat up a little straighter. And Dalinar… Dalinar met Yanagawn’s eyes, then bowed his head in a sign of respect and thanks.
When had the young emperor learned such maturity? Or… perhaps Adolin should be wondering why he hadn’t learned the same.
“Very well,” Dalinar said. “Let’s discuss our positions. Stargyle, you up to making a map with me?”
“Yes, sir,” the Lightweaver said. “After the last few weeks of practice, I think I can manage it.”
“Good,” Dalinar said. “We’ll begin in Emul, with—”
“Holy hell,” a voice said from the corner.
Adolin frowned, trying to figure out those words and how they fit together. The group parted, revealing Wit sitting in the corner, holding that paper and what looked like a bone. “It’s not possible,” Wit said, louder.
Adolin glanced toward Jasnah, who shook her head, as confused as he was.
“I’m an idiot,” Wit said.
“Wit?” Dalinar asked. “Are you—”
Wit leapt to his feet. “I’m an absolute fool! The most awe-inspiring, spectacular example of idiocy this side of the cosmere. So grand, I should be immortalized in song. The type that drunk men sing before they puke, mixing the rancid contents of their poisoned stomachs with my name.”
“Wit,” Dalinar said firmly. “Explain yourself.”
Well, that seemed like an invitation for mockery. Adolin braced himself, but when Wit spoke his voice was serious.
“There are loopholes in this agreement,” Wit explained. “I’m sorry; I failed you all. I was supposed to shepherd the process of creating this contract. I could have seen exactly where these attacks would land, if I’d been more keen-eyed.”
He said it solemnly. Quietly. What could make Wit be so… normal?
“How could you have guessed they’d strike at Thaylen City?” Fen asked.
“Because it’s in this agreement,” Wit said, “blatant as my own nose. As you all know, Dalinar was forced a little off script in creating this three days ago.”
“Odium insisted he couldn’t accept the deal as presented,” Dalinar said to the room. “Because he can no longer keep the Fused imprisoned.”
“Locking them away is no longer viable,” Wit agreed, “with the Oathpact broken and the Everstorm in place. Regardless, Dalinar going off script led to this situation—where the enemy has one last chance to grab lands.”
“Which is why we’ve been expecting an attack on the borders in strategically valuable places,” the Mink said, standing beside Dalinar. “If they expand the size of Alethkar, for example, but then we win it back… well, their attack was wasted. So we assumed some encroachment from Jah Keved on the Frostlands, or maybe another push into Emul or Tashikk. Key is that Alethkar and Herdaz are ours, forever, if Dalinar wins.”
The Herdazian looked to Dalinar and nodded in respect. Adolin hadn’t heard all the details of the contract, but he’d been told that Dalinar had specifically singled out Herdaz for freedom. The mark of a promise kept.
Dalinar nodded back. Adolin’s father was standing—because of course he’d forgotten to bring his chair. Despite the grand philosophies he espoused, Dalinar was always an exception to the rules. Even his own.
Storms, Adolin thought, acknowledging the bitterness lacing his thoughts. I’m really, really letting this go too far.
He knew it. But he couldn’t stop it.
“The Mink is right,” Dalinar said. “Whatever happens, Odium keeps the lands that surrendered to him, such as Iri, Jah Keved, and Marat. We keep whatever we hold when the deadline arrives. Strikes against Thaylen City and Azimir are not completely outrageous—but they don’t seem a smart choice. Why risk everything on capturing our strongholds when it’s much more possible to grab land at the perimeter?”
“Because,” Wit whispered, “if he takes the capitals, he gets the kingdoms. In their entirety.”
“Wait,” Yanagawn said. “What did you say?”
“I realized earlier that I might have missed something,” Wit said. “So, I sent a request to one of the best contract negotiators I know. Frost. Tall fellow. Big as a house, actually. Sharp teeth. Fondness for chastising me, which shows he has good judgment. He refused to help, as he insists he will not intervene, but his sister is as smart as he is, and she listened. I read her the contract, and she needed access to the Alethi legal code. That’s what I’ve been doing for these past hours—reading her laws, talking her through it, asking for her explanations.”
“And you did this… right here?” Navani asked. “How?”
Wit held up the little bone, as if that explained everything. “The general idea is this: In Dalinar’s negotiations, he argued for the return of Alethkar and Herdaz. Entire kingdoms. Then he agreed to Odium’s request: Odium can try for entire kingdoms with his attacks. By Alethi law, this means that he has to capture their seat of power. So…”
“So he throws everything he has at Azimir,” Yanagawn whispered. “Because if he can take it, he claims the kingdom. That’s what you’re saying?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Wit said.
Oh, Damnation, Adolin thought. The room fell silent.
“He promised me,” Dalinar whispered, “that there would be no taking advantage of loopholes. That he would hold to the spirit of the contest. You had to dig through the Alethi legal code for hours to find this. It sounds a lot like a loophole to me.”
“Yes,” Wit said. “And that’s why I’m an idiot. Not because I missed the intricacies of the legal code—but because this isn’t something that Rayse could ever do. It’s not only against his nature, it’s something he promised he would not do. Even without a formal covenant, a god cannot break that kind of promise without dire consequences.”
“So… what?” Dalinar said. “I’m missing something.”
“As are we all,” Wit said with a sigh. “Odium is exploiting a loophole in your agreement. Rayse wouldn’t do that. Rayse couldn’t do that. So…” He looked around the room, meeting their eyes. “So we are not facing Rayse. My old enemy must be dead, and someone else has taken up the Shard of Odium. I should have seen it the moment he started acting so oddly, but now I’ve confirmed it by sensing the rhythms of Roshar. My friends, we are facing an enemy we do not know and cannot anticipate. And whoever it is, they’re a genius—one who has devised a ploy to conquer all of Roshar in ten days.”
* * *
“All right,” Shob said, huddling in an alcove with Shallan and Gaz up on the third floor. “Look at these.”
Shallan and Gaz had taken different faces, all three of them now appearing like Herdazian workers. Gaz had a real sparkflicker on his finger, with some flint to fake working it. Shob blew his nose, then set out some pages for them on the ground. It was quieter here, with less traffic, though sound still echoed up through the nearby atrium.
“Oi was watching the atrium region,” Shob said. “Like you said. Oi spotted someone spyin’ on Dalinar as he talked to some Makabaki woman. The Ghostblood was this one here.”
Shallan took the page, a sketch of a short Alethi or Veden woman Hoid had identified as a Ghostblood, but not one Shallan had ever met. At the bottom he’d written: former actor, recruited recently.
Actor, eh? She supposed that wasn’t an unusual recruitment tactic for a secretive organization.
“You set a tail on her?” Shallan asked.
“Darcira is followin’ right now,” Shob said, rubbing his nose again. The man was always bemoaning some ailment or another—none of which were ever as debilitating as he thought. He was good at his job though. This was a solid lead.
The Ghostbloods regularly set up, then abandoned bases. They were also fantastically good at losing tails, but a new recruit? This seemed a weak point.
Shob leaned back, complaining about his stomach while Shallan looked over the sketch once more, noting the woman’s tattoo peeking out through her freehand sleeve. Hoid’s sketches were excellent.
Shallan rubbed her wrist, where she’d refused to get one of those same tattoos. She flipped through the sketches and pulled out the picture of Mraize: tall and distinguished—scarred and proud of it. She… didn’t hate him. For all his threats and manipulations, he was too complex a man to be hated. She felt frustration mixed with envy, accompanied by a bitter sadness about what could perhaps have been.
She would have to kill him. As she’d killed Tyn. As she’d killed her father. But she would not enjoy it.
The next sketch was Iyatil in her mask. Even the sketch of her was shadowed, and Hoid noted he didn’t catch sight of her often. The next two pictures were those masked newcomers—assassins brought in from Iyatil’s homeland, wearing wooden masks painted in a way that made them feel… featureless. Just shapes and lines, not people, except for those eyes staring out, and the mouths barely exposed at the bottom.
As she was studying those pictures a soldier strolled past and glanced at Shallan’s group. Gaz casually held up one of the pages to be more visible, but it suddenly depicted a busty woman in a state of complete undress. Shallan blushed, drawing a shamespren despite herself. The soldier chuckled and moved on.
“Gaz,” she hissed.
“What?” he said. “You have a better way to explain a bunch of street sweepers gathered around some papers?”
“Where did you even get that image!”
“Drew it myself,” he said, with a grunt. “You said we should take them art lessons. Gotta get the musculature right to learn proper Lightweaving.”
“I know that!” she said, recalling some experiences in her youth. She shooed away that shamespren in the shape of a red flower petal. “But… my models were never quite so… um…”
“Oi think somethin’s wrong with my heart,” Shob said from beside them, lying on his back now, eyes closed. “Oi think it stopped beating. Can’t feel it. Is that normal?” Shallan didn’t give it much thought—Shob was merely being his usual overdramatic self.
Gaz shook the page so the image vanished, returning to a depiction of a Ghostblood. “You want me to invite you next time we do a drawing session?”
“Storms, no,” Shallan said, still blushing. “You’re not supposed to stare at models. It’s unprofessional.”
“I don’t think those ladies and fellows mind,” Shob said. “On account of their other jobs.”
Storms. Well, she did need anatomy practice. She put that out of her head as Shob groaned and sat up, then wagged a blinking spanreed with a message from Darcira. They counted out the blinks silently, interpreting the message. New Ghostbloods hideout found. Narak. I watch.
“Narak?” Gaz said softly. “Why so far away?”
“The tower is awake now,” Shallan said. “Perhaps the Sibling could locate them for us if they were closer.”
“Should we hit them with a strike team?” Gaz asked. “Gather some troops—put some Windrunners to good use for once?”
“We should gather one,” Shallan said. “Adolin should have gotten us permission. But striking won’t do much good unless we know Mraize and Iyatil are inside. Plus, like I said earlier, we need to find out what they’re planning.”
“Which means…” Gaz said.
“We’ll use a strike team, yes,” Shallan said. “But we’re going to sneak in first.”
Gaz nodded and collected the pictures, then headed out. Shob was lying down again. Shallan had always found his antics ridiculous, but today… today she hesitated, then tapped him on the foot while he looked up at the ceiling.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Hey, you all right?”
“Oi know Oi probably am,” he replied. “Oi know it’s just in my head, all these things Oi feel. So yeah, Oi suppose. It ain’t real.”
Shallan suddenly felt guilty. She’d dismissed his attitude as silly earlier. How many would call what she dealt with “silly”?
“Hey,” she said. “Feeling real is enough. The things in our heads can be some of the most important things in our lives. Love is in our heads. Confidence. Integrity. All things we make up, but they’re still very important.”
He sat up. “And me feelin’ sick all the time? Is that good, like love or integrity?”
“Probably not,” she said. “But it being in your head doesn’t mean we should ignore it. You need any help?”
He cocked his head, illusion covering his face, but his eyes—his expressions—showed his true self. “Nobody’s ever asked me that. You know? In years, nobody’s asked me that? Yeah. Yeah, Oi think Oi could use some help.” He hesitated. “But Oi don’t know. Sometimes… when people listen to me… it gets worse. Oi just start thinkin’ of more things wrong, then ask for more and more sympathy. Till Oi hate myself, and everyone hates me.”
“Ignoring the problem isn’t the solution though,” Shallan said. “Trust me. When we’re done with all this, let’s see if we can find someone who can help. There has to be an ardent or a surgeon or someone.”
“Okay,” he said, rising. “Oi think Oi just felt a heartbeat. So maybe Oi will survive long enough.” He glanced at her, then paused. “Oi say exaggerations of what Oi feel like that because they’re funny. Makes people think Oi’m jokin’. So they don’t hate me, you know?”
She took his hand, squeezed it, and nodded.
“You still want me watchin’ here?” he asked.
She nodded again. “Thanks for spotting that Ghostblood, but I want another set of eyes on that meeting up above. Outside, in the room with the guards, listening to what they’re chattering about.” Shob was excellent at that kind of information-gathering, but his skill set wasn’t aligned with attacking enemies, as she was planning to try next.
“Then Oi’d better find a lift up,” he said. Then he glanced at her. “You… pay better attention now. What happened on that trip?”
“I found a few pieces of myself,” she said, “that I’d lost.”
Excerpted from Wind and Truth, copyright © 2024 Dragonsteel Entertainment.
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Brandon Sanderson
Book Five of The Stormlight Archive
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Brandon Sanderson
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