Oathbringer

by Brandon Sanderson

  “First stop is the moneychanger, then,” Adolin said.

  “After that, we should see if we can buy more rations,” Kaladin said, “just in case. And we need to look for passage.”

  “But to where?” Azure said. “The perpendicularity, or Thaylen City?”

  “Let’s see what our options are,” Adolin decided. “Maybe there will be a ship to one destination, but not the other. Let’s send one group to inquire with ships, and another to get supplies. Shallan, do you have a preference which you’d rather do?”

  “I’ll look for passage,” she said. “I have experience with it—I made a lot of trips when chasing down Jasnah.”

  “Sounds good,” Adolin said. “We should put one Radiant in each group, so bridgeboy and Syl, you’ll go with me. Pattern and Azure will go with Shallan.”

  “Maybe I should help Shallan—” Syl began.

  “We’ll need a spren with us,” Adolin said. “To explain culture here. Let’s go trade in those spheres first, though.”

  Moelach was said to grant visions of the future at different times—but most commonly at the transition point between realms. When a soul was nearing the Tranquiline Halls.

  —From Hessi’s Mythica, page 144

  Kaladin hiked through the city with Adolin and Syl. The moneychanging had gone quickly, and they’d left the spren of Adolin’s sword with the others. After Shallan had taken the deadeye’s hand, she had remained behind.

  Reaching this city marked a welcome step forward, toward finally getting out of this place and reaching Dalinar. Unfortunately, a brand-new city full of unknown threats didn’t encourage him to relax.

  The city wasn’t as densely populated as most human ones, but the variety of spren was stunning. Reachers like Ico and his sailors were common, but there were also spren that looked much like Adolin’s sword—at least before she’d been killed. They were made entirely of vines, though they had crystal hands and wore human clothing. Equally common were spren with inky black skin that shone with a variety of colors when light hit them right. Their clothing seemed part of them, like that of the Cryptics and honorspren.

  A small group of Cryptics passed nearby, huddling close together as they walked. Each had a head with a slightly different pattern. There were other spren with skin like cracked stone, molten light shining from within. Still others had skin the color of old white ashes—and when Kaladin saw one of these point toward something, the skin stretching at the joint of his arm disintegrated and blew away, revealing the joint and knobs of the humerus. The skin quickly regrew.

  The variety reminded Kaladin of the costumes of the Cult of Moments—though he didn’t spot a single honorspren. And it didn’t seem like the other spren mixed much. Humans were rare enough that the three of them—including Syl, imitating an Alethi—turned heads.

  Buildings were constructed using bricks in a variety of colors or blocks of many different types of stone. Each building was a hodgepodge of materials with no pattern Kaladin could determine.

  “How do they get building materials?” Kaladin asked as they followed the moneychanger’s instructions toward the nearby market. “Are there quarries on this side?”

  Syl frowned. “I…” She cocked her head. “You know, I’m not sure. I think maybe we make it appear on this side, somehow, from yours? Like Ico did with the ice?”

  “They seem to wear whatever,” Adolin said, pointing. “That’s an Alethi officer’s coat over an Azish scribe’s vest. Tashikki wrap worn with trousers, and there’s almost a full Thaylen tlmko, but they’re missing the boots.”

  “No children,” Kaladin noticed.

  “There have been a few,” Syl said. “They just don’t look little, like human children.”

  “How does that even work?” Adolin said.

  “Well, it’s certainly less messy than your method!” She scrunched her face up. “We’re made of power, bits of gods. There are places where that power coalesces, and parts start to be aware. You go, and then come back with a child? I think?”

  Adolin chuckled.

  “What?” Kaladin asked.

  “That’s actually not that different from what my nanny told me when I asked her where children come from. A nonsense story about parents baking a new child out of crem clay.”

  “It doesn’t happen often,” Syl said as they passed a group of the ash-colored spren sitting around a table and watching the crowds. They eyed the humans with overt hostility, and one flicked fingers toward Kaladin. Those fingers exploded to bits of dust, leaving bones that grew back the flesh.

  “Raising children doesn’t happen often?” Adolin asked.

  Syl nodded. “It’s rare. Most spren will go hundreds of years without doing it.”

  Hundreds of years. “Storms,” Kaladin whispered, considering it. “Most of these spren are that old?”

  “Or older,” Syl said. “But aging isn’t the same with spren. Like time isn’t. We don’t learn as fast, or change much, without a bond.”

  Towers in the city’s center showed the time by way of fires burning in a set of vertical holes—so they could judge how to meet back with the others in an hour, as agreed. The market turned out to be mostly roofless stalls open to the air, with goods piled on tables. Even in comparison to the improvised market of Urithiru, this seemed … ephemeral to Kaladin. But there were no stormwinds to worry about here, so it probably made sense.

  They passed a clothing stall, and of course Adolin insisted on stopping. The oily spren who managed the place had an odd, very terse way of talking, with a strange use of words. But it did speak Alethi, unlike most of Ico’s crew.

  Kaladin waited for the prince to finish, until Syl stepped up and presented herself in an oversized poncho tied with a belt. On her head she wore a large, floppy hat.

  “What’s that?” Kaladin asked.

  “Clothes!”

  “Why do you need clothes? Yours are built in.”

  “Those are boring.”

  “Can’t you change them?”

  “Takes Stormlight, on this side,” she said. “Plus, the dress is part of my essence, so I’m actually walking around naked all the time.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Easy for you to say. We bought you clothing. You have three sets!”

  “Three?” he said, looking down at his clothing. “I have my uniform, and this one Ico gave me.”

  “Plus the one you’re wearing underneath that one.”

  “Underwear?” Kaladin said.

  “Yeah. That means you have three sets of clothing, while I have none.”

  “We need two sets so one can be washed while we wear the other.”

  “Just so you won’t be stinky.” She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way. “Look, you can give these to Shallan when I get bored with them. You know she likes hats.”

  That was true. He sighed, and when Adolin returned with another set of underclothing for each of them—along with a skirt for Shallan—Kaladin had him haggle for the clothing Syl was wearing too. The prices were shockingly cheap, using a tiny fraction of the money from their writ.

  They continued on, passing stalls that sold building materials. According to the signs Syl could read, some items were far more expensive than others. Syl seemed to think the difference had to do with how permanent the thing was in Shadesmar—which made Kaladin worry for the clothing they’d bought.

  They found a place selling weapons, and Adolin tried to negotiate while Kaladin browsed. Some kitchen knives. A few hand axes. And sitting in a locked, glass-topped box, a long thin silvery chain.

  “You like?” the shopkeeper asked. She was made of vines—her face formed as if from green string—and wore a havah with a crystal safehand exposed. “Only a thousand broams of Stormlight.”

  “A thousand broams?” Kaladin asked. He looked down at the box, which was locked to the table and guarded by small orange spren that looked like people. “No thanks.” The pricing here really was bizarre.

  The
swords proved more expensive than Adolin wanted, but he did buy them two harpoons—and Kaladin felt a lot more secure once one was placed in his hands. Walking on, Kaladin noted that Syl was hunkered down in her oversized poncho, her hair tucked into the collar and her hat pulled down to shadow her face. It seemed like she didn’t trust Shallan’s illusion to keep her from being recognized as an honorspren.

  The food stall they found had mostly more “cans” like those on the ship. Adolin started haggling, and Kaladin settled in for another wait, scanning those who passed on the pathway for danger. He found his eyes drawn, however, to a stall across from them. Selling art.

  Kaladin had never had much time for art. Either the picture depicted something useful—like a map—or it was basically pointless. And yet, nestled among the paintings for display was a small one painted from thick strokes of oil. White and red, with lines of black. When he looked away, he found himself drawn back toward it, studying the way the highlights played off those dark lines.

  Like nine shadows … he thought. With a figure kneeling in the middle …

  * * *

  The ashen spren waved excitedly, pointing to the east and then making a cutting motion. She spoke a language Shallan couldn’t understand, but fortunately Pattern could interpret.

  “Ah…” he said. “Mmm, yes. I see. She will not sail back to Cultivation’s Perpendicularity. Mmm. No, she will not go.”

  “Same excuse?” Shallan asked.

  “Yes. Voidspren sailing warships and demanding tribute from any who approach. Oh! She says she would rather trade with honorspren than take another trip to the perpendicularity. I think this is an insult. Ha ha ha. Mmm…”

  “Voidspren,” Azure said. “Can she at least explain what that means?”

  The ashen spren began speaking quickly after Pattern asked. “Hmm … There are many varieties, she says. Some of golden light, others are red shadows. Curious, yes. And it sounds like some of the Fused are with them—men with shells that can fly. I did not know this.”

  “What?” Azure prompted.

  “Shadesmar has been changing these last months,” Pattern explained. “Voidspren have arrived mysteriously just west of the Nexus of Imagination. Near Marat or Tukar on your side. Hmm … and they have sailed up and seized the perpendicularity. She says, ahem, ‘You need but spit into a crowd, and you’ll find one, these days.’ Ha ha ha. I do not think she actually has spit.”

  Shallan and Azure shared a look as the sailor retreated onto her ship, to which mandras were being harnessed. The spren of Adolin’s sword lingered nearby, seeming content to stay where told. Passersby looked away from her, as if embarrassed to see her there.

  “Well, the dock registrar was right,” Azure said, folding her arms. “No ships sailing toward the peaks or toward Thaylen City. Those destinations are too close to enemy holdings.”

  “Maybe we should try for the Shattered Plains instead,” Shallan said. That meant going east—a direction ships were more likely to travel, these days. It would mean going away from both what Kaladin and Azure wanted, but at least it would be something.

  If they got there, she’d still need to find a way to engage the Oathgate on this side. What if she failed? She imagined them trapped in some far-off location, surrounded by beads, slowly starving.…

  “Let’s keep asking the ships on our list,” she said, leading the way. The next ship in line was a long, stately vessel made of white wood with golden trim. Its entire presentation seemed to say, Good luck affording me. Even the mandras being led toward it from one of the warehouses wore gold harnesses.

  According to the list from the dock registrar, this was heading someplace called Lasting Integrity—which was to the southwest. That was kind of the direction Kaladin wanted to go, so Shallan had Pattern stop one of the grooms and ask if the captain of the ship would be likely to take human passengers.

  The groom, a spren that looked like she was made of fog or mist, merely laughed and walked off as if she’d heard a grand joke.

  “I suppose,” Azure said, “we should take that for a no.”

  The next ship in line was a sleek vessel that looked fast to Shallan’s untrained eyes. A good choice, the registrar had noted, and likely to be welcoming toward humans. Indeed, a spren working on the deck waved as they approached. He put one booted foot up on the side of his ship and looked down with a grin.

  What kind of spren, Shallan thought, has skin like cracked rock? He glowed deep within, as if molten on the inside. “Humans?” he called in Veden, reading Shallan’s hair as a sign of her heritage. “You’re far from home. Or close, I suppose, just in the wrong realm!”

  “We’re looking for passage,” Shallan called up. “Where are you sailing?”

  “East!” he said. “Toward Freelight!”

  “Could we potentially negotiate passage?”

  “Sure!” he called down. “Always interesting to have humans aboard. Just don’t eat my pet chicken. Ha! But negotiations will have to wait. We’ve got an inspection soon. Come back in a half hour.”

  The dock registrar had mentioned this; an official inspection of the ships happened at first hour every day. Shallan and the team backed off, and she suggested returning to their meeting place near the dock registrar. As they approached, Shallan could see that Ico’s ship was already under inspection by a dock official—another spren made of vines and crystal.

  Maybe we could convince Ico to take us, if we just tried harder. Perhaps—

  Azure’s breath caught and she grabbed Shallan by the shoulder, yanking her into an alley between two warehouses, out of sight of the ship. “Damnation!”

  “What?” Shallan demanded as Pattern and, lethargically, Adolin’s spren joined them.

  “Look up there,” Azure said. “Talking with Ico, on the poop deck.”

  Shallan frowned, then peeked out, spotting what she’d missed earlier: A figure stood up there, with the marbled skin of a parshman. He floated a foot or two off the deck next to Ico, looming like a stern tutor over a foolish student.

  The spren with the vines and crystal body walked up, reporting to this one.

  “Perhaps,” Azure said, “we should have asked who runs the inspections.”

  * * *

  Kaladin’s harpoon drew nervous glances as he crossed the pathway between stalls, to get a closer look at the painting.

  Can spren even be hurt in this realm? a part of him wondered. The sailors wouldn’t carry harpoons if things couldn’t be killed on this side, right? He’d have to ask Syl, once she was done interpreting for Adolin.

  Kaladin stepped up to the painting. The ones beside it showed far more technical prowess—they were capable portraits, perfectly capturing their human subjects. This one was sloppy by comparison. It looked like the painter had simply taken a knife covered in paint and slopped it onto the canvas, making general shapes.

  Haunting, beautiful shapes. Mostly reds and whites, but with a figure at the center, throwing out nine shadows …

  Dalinar, he thought. I failed Elhokar. After all we went through, after the rains and confronting Moash, I’ve failed. And I lost your city.

  He reached up his fingers to touch the painting.

  “Marvelous, isn’t it!” a spren said.

  Kaladin jumped, sheepishly lowering his fingers. The proprietor of this stall was a Reacher woman, short, with a bronze ponytail.

  “It’s a unique piece, human,” she said. “From the far-off Court of Gods, a painting intended only for a divinity to see. It is exceptionally rare that one escapes being burned at the court, and makes its way onto the market.”

  “Nine shadows,” Kaladin said. “The Unmade?”

  “This is a piece by Nenefra. It is said that each person who sees one of his masterworks sees something different. And to think, I charge such a minuscule price. Only three hundred broams’ worth of Stormlight! Truly, times are difficult in the art market.”

  “I…”

  Haunting images from Kaladin’s vision
overlapped the stark wedges of paint on the canvas. He needed to reach Thaylen City. He had to be there on time—

  What was that disturbance behind him?

  Kaladin shook out of his reverie and glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see Adolin jogging toward him.

  “We have a problem,” the prince said.

  * * *

  “How could you not mention this!” Shallan said to the little spren at the registrar office. “How could you neglect to point out that Voidspren ruled the city?”

  “I thought everyone knew!” he said, vines curling and moving at the corners of his face. “Oh dear. Oh my! Anger is not helpful, human. I am a professional. It is not my job to explain things you should already know!”

  “He’s still on Ico’s ship,” Azure said, looking out the office window. “Why is he still on Ico’s ship?”

  “That is odd,” the spren said. “Each inspection usually takes only thirteen minutes!”

  Damnation. Shallan breathed out, trying to calm herself. Coming back to the registrar had been a calculated risk. He was probably working with the Fused, but they hoped to intimidate him into talking.

  “When did it happen?” Shallan asked. “My spren friend told us this was a free city.”

  “It’s been months now,” the vine spren said. “Oh, they don’t have firm control here, mind you. Just a few officials, and promises from our leaders to follow. Two Fused check in on us now and then. I think the other is quite insane. Kyril—who is running the inspections—well, he might be mad too, actually. You see, when he gets angry—”

  “Damnation!” Azure cursed.

  “What?”

  “He just set Ico’s ship on fire.”

  * * *

  Kaladin ran back across the street to find Syl a center of activity. She had pulled her oversized hat down to obscure her face, but a collection of spren stood around the food stall, pointing at her and talking.