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 33: The Conflux of All Darkness and Sorrow
May you have the courage someday to walk away. And the wisdom to recognize that day when it arrives.
—From The Way of Kings, fourth parable
Lift gasped at the sudden flood of light.
She’d been near Dalinar’s perpendicularity before, but the wonder still struck her every time. That powerful illumination shining straight through her, making her transparent. Even hidden in the little air tunnels as she was, it overwhelmed her.
Today, within that light, she saw herself as she could have been. Standing tall and proud, unafraid of the future, because the hand of someone loving rested on her shoulder. In this vision she was dressed in the Iriali clothing of her childhood, where her family had moved when she’d been young.
What if she’d stayed there, in Rall Elorim, instead of… wherever the wind put her? Would she have become that girl—that confident young woman—with gleaming hair, wearing an Iriali short shirt, her shoulders and midriff exposed? As if she didn’t care that people saw she was growing up?
This version of her didn’t seem afraid of anything.
Lift reached for that version of herself, her fingers barely visible in the light, and she thought she felt a comforting song flow through her. And that hand. On the shoulder, with tan skin and painted nails… so familiar. Though the rest of the figure was invisible, Lift knew that hand, so soft despite its calluses.
If she could just hold it one more time…
But there was no substance to this vision. And Lift knew, confronted by this at last, something she’d been lying to herself about. She didn’t believe her mother was dead. Oh, she said it. She said it over and over, the way her great-uncle had always sworn by the name of the god he hated. In case that god was watching, in case fate was checking on her, because if you said it then nobody would ask what was really in your heart.
She didn’t believe; she physically couldn’t. Her mother would hold her again, and life would be warm. But Lift… she couldn’t change. What if Mother returned and didn’t recognize her? What if Mother looked for her and didn’t see her, so found some other little girl to love?
Life had been perfect for a few months. Why couldn’t it have stayed that way?
“Lift?” a trembling voice said from behind her in the shaft. The vision vanished. “I’m scared.”
Wyndle? But no. That was…
She turned sharply, and saw Gavinor in her shadow, gazing past her into the room where Navani and Dalinar were opening their perpendicularity.
From the wall next to her, Wyndle’s vine formed a mouth. “Oh dear. Did you know he was following us?”
“Of course not,” Lift hissed. “Gav! What are you doing!”
“You said,” the boy whispered, “we have to learn when to obey and when to not obey. I saw you sneak in. This is a time to not obey?” He shrank further before that light.
Storms. It was one thing to be caught peeking in on important meetings. It was quite another to be caught corrupting the starvin’ crown prince and grandson of the starvin’ Bondsmiths. They’d string her up. Worse. They’d stop letting her steal their desserts.
She tried to shoo Gav back down the small tunnel, but he was frozen in place. With a sigh, she twisted around so she could push him back before her. She’d miss whatever awesome thing Dalinar and Navani were doing, but whatever. She startled a strange purplish cremling as they crawled. Those things were all over in the air shafts. She wondered what they tasted like boiled, but had never managed to catch one. She also wondered if anyone else suspected what they really were.
She got Gav moving at last, and everything was fine until Navani gave a shout—and the light started to pull them toward it. Lift screamed as she slid backward through the tunnel, pushing hard on the walls to stop herself, but then Gav collided with her, shoving them both out into the room.
“Mistress!” Wyndle cried. “Oh my! Mistress!”
Air rushed around them in a roar, rivaling the sounds of the waterfalls that had made listening in so difficult. With the powerful light blinding her, she lost track of where she was—and Gav slipped from her grip.
They were… they were both being pulled toward that rift. Sliding across the rough ground, bumping over stones. In her panic, she tried something she’d never managed before.
She became un-awesome. Instead of slipping freely, she tried to make herself grind against the ground, maybe stick. Unfortunately, the friction just made her flip upward instead. She flew through the too-bright air straight toward the rift—
—until someone seized her by the arm and held her, a figure that cast a shadow in the wrong direction. A man all in black, grunting, struggling against the powerful rift until finally the perpendicularity vanished.
Lift slumped to the ground, dropping like a kite with no wind. She could barely see anything, just shapes and shadows, though her vision quickly began to return.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“You’re lucky I sensed you watching again,” Wit said. “I almost missed grabbing you from the air. You both owe me.”
She relaxed, and Wyndle came scuttling over.
“Oh! What was that!” Wyndle said. “Master Hoid, what happened?”
“I wish I knew,” Wit said. “Their anchors are gone. And… well, so are they.”
“Wait,” Lift said, opening her eyes. “They went in, like, totally? Bodies too?” Whenever she’d snuck into Dalinar’s visions, she’d left her body behind.
“Yes,” Wit said. “And you? No thanks for the rescue? Figures.”
Lift frowned at that until she saw the cremling from earlier fluttering away on wings that could barely hold it in the air. So when Wit had said “both” of them, he’d meant…
Lift sat bolt upright. “Gav!”
“What?” Wit asked.
“Did you grab Gavinor? He was sneaking through the tunnels behind me!” She leapt to her feet, searching around. “You saved him, right?”
“I didn’t see him,” Wit admitted.
“Why not!” she shouted. “You saw me!”
“Lift, you’re so highly Invested I’m surprised normal people can’t feel it. You glow so brightly to my life sense that you outshine anyone nearby. You’re sure Gavinor was here?”
She nodded, then the two of them looked—slowly—toward the bare portion of stone where the portal had been.
“Well, shit,” Lift said.
“You heard that from Zahel, haven’t you?” Wit said, his eyes growing distant.
“Why do people keep saying that?”
“Rosharans don’t use that particular word as an epithet,” Wit said, his expression still strange as he turned in a slow circle. “You’re only going to confuse people.”
“The best words are the ones most people don’t understand.”
“That is literally the opposite of how language should function.”
“Yeah, ’cuz you make sense all the time. Anyway, what are you doing? Should we be panicking?”
“Design and I are peeking into the Cognitive Realm,” Wit said. “In case we were lucky, and the Bondsmiths dropped into Shadesmar.”
“And?” Lift guessed.
“I see the remnants of one corpse—Malwish, by that broken mask—and a destroyed chamber. That’s curious. But no sign of Gav, Dalinar, or Navani. Unfortunately, it seems they did go into the Spiritual Realm.”
“Which means…?”
Wit focused on her, then drew his lips to a line. “We have to hope that Dalinar finds his way back in the next eight days.”
“And if he doesn’t?” She glanced at Wyndle, who had shrunken into a small pile of vines, whimpering softly. Storms. Gav would be terrified. Could she do anything?
“This complicates everything,” Wit said. “The contract has provisions for Dalinar’s death before the deadline, his stalling for time, or if his arrival is prevented by another. But if he doesn’t show up because of his own choices… I believe that will be a forfeit.”
“Meaning we lose.”
“Worse,” Wit said. “It will be as if Dalinar broke the contract, violating his oath. As Dalinar represents Honor, the power of which is maintaining Odium’s place on this planet… if Dalinar doesn’t show up, that will liberate Odium entirely. He’ll be free to rampage in the cosmere again.”
Storms. Maybe Gav wasn’t the only one in trouble. Except… “Don’t we want Odium to leave?”
“Odium unbound would be terrible,” Wit said, crossing to where the portal had opened. He knelt to press his fingers on the stone. “If he weren’t being held in check by fear of the other Shards, you have no idea the destruction he would cause.”
“Sure, right,” Lift said. “But we’ve had to deal with him for… like forever. Surely someone else can do it.”
Wit didn’t reply.
“Can you do something?” Lift asked, stepping up to him and squatting down. “Bring them back? The times I cheated my way in, I had Dalinar to guide me.”
“I don’t know,” Wit said softly. “I warned them. I will… try to think of something that will help. It might take time.” He looked toward the door. “That was a knock.”
“You can hear that over the rush of the water?”
He nodded, standing.
“Do we… tell them?” Lift asked.
“Depends,” Wit said. “How eager are you to start a massive tower-wide riot? Dalinar and Navani are the glue that holds together the nation and the Radiants. I think the only thing keeping people from full-on panic is the belief that somehow the Blackthorn will handle the upcoming contest. If people find out he’s gone…”
“Right,” she said as another knock came, this time louder. “What do we do, then?”
“We do the smart thing, of course,” Wit said, starting to glow as he drew in Stormlight. “We lie.”
* * *
As night fully took the landscape, Kaladin had to admit defeat. His stew was a disaster. It tasted like crem.
Kaladin had helped Rock dozens of times, though Huio, Lopen, and Dabbid had proven to be the most capable. Still, it shouldn’t have been that hard for him. Just cut everything up and toss it in. Part of the reason he’d brought such a large pack was because he’d requested spices and vegetables.
He squatted by his little cook pot, a poor substitute for Rock’s great cauldron, frustrated. Maybe more pepper? He sprinkled it in and tried the mess, which now tasted like slightly spicier crem. He groaned in frustration and slumped on his rock. First moon was up, illuminating Szeth as he lay on his back on the grass—no bedroll, only a blanket as a pillow. He was munching on a ration bar.
“Not working?” Syl whispered. She sat on a rock nearby, full sized, violet-fringed ko-takama skirt rippling in the wind.
“It just needs to simmer,” Kaladin lied.
“Did you use… chunks of ration bars in that?”
“Needed meat. Ration bars are basically jerky.”
Perhaps that hadn’t been the best choice. But, well, maybe… maybe if it cooked longer? He halfheartedly offered up another pinch of spice to the bubbling pot. But storms, he’d taken so long that Szeth had already eaten his own dinner. The whole point of an evening stew was to draw people in, getting them to open up as they ate something unexpectedly good.
Only Szeth didn’t seem to care about what tasted good.
Try anyway, Kaladin thought at himself. Dalinar asked you.
“So,” Kaladin said, turning away from the fire to face Szeth, “this is your homeland.”
“Obviously,” Szeth said.
“Your house anywhere close?”
“Nearby,” Szeth said.
“Want to visit?”
Szeth shrugged, his eyes now closed. “There is nothing for me there.”
“Still might help.”
“I told you that I need no help.”
Kaladin turned and stirred the stew, mostly to be doing something. “I used to think that too,” he said, loud enough Szeth could hear from behind. “Actually, I used to say it. I always knew I needed help. Part of you does too, Szeth. It’s not weakness to admit it. We can quiet those voices.”
“You misunderstand,” he replied. “When I say I do not need help, it is not because I lack the ability to recognize my faults. It is not normal that I am chased by the voices of the dead. Likewise, I recognize that others are not so daunted by decisions as I am.
“When I say I need no help, it is because this is how I should be. I have murdered many innocents. I chose to follow the broken traditions of a people who were so scared of the Truth, they exiled me rather than face it. Because of this, I deserve suffering. It is right. If you were to heal it, you would do something immoral. Therefore I tell you I do not want your ‘help.’ Leave me alone.”
“It’s not immoral to stop hurting, Szeth,” Kaladin said, looking back again.
Szeth just closed his eyes and didn’t respond.
Damnation. Kaladin gritted his teeth. Then he forced himself to get out the flute and lay Wit’s paper explanations in front of him. He needed something to relax him, and maybe this would help.
He was wrong.
It had been barely a day since Wit had shown him the positionings, but Kaladin fumbled as he tried to replicate them. He first couldn’t make a single sound. Then what followed was a breathy, weak noise, nothing like the beautiful and light music Wit had made.
After a half hour of stubbornly trying to play, Kaladin tossed the flute down—causing it to stick in the soft soil like a knife in wood. He heaved himself off the rock by the fire and stalked out into the night, kicking at the stupid grass as it refused to get out of his way.
Syl stepped up beside him in the moonlit darkness. She was better at being of help than he was, because she knew to stay quiet while he breathed in and out, trying to exhale away his frustrations.
“I can’t do this, Syl,” he said. “The only thing I’ve ever been good at is war. Even when I was forced on leave, I found a way to fight for the tower. I am useless unless I’m killing something.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“But I don’t,” Kaladin snapped. “I’ve always been too good at killing. You recognize that; it’s what drew you to me.”
“I was drawn,” she said, “to willpower, determination, and a desire to protect. Yes, I like the way you dance with the wind when you use a spear, but it’s not the killing, Kaladin. It never was.”
He didn’t respond, staring off into the darkness.
“This is your dark brain talking,” she said. “You weren’t killing when you rescued Bridge Four. You pulled thirty men out of the darkness and the chasms, then you forged them into something wonderful.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I forged them into killers.”
“A family,” Syl said. “Don’t try to distort it. I was there, Kaladin. You did it because you couldn’t stand to let them keep dying. You did it out of love.”
He glanced to the side and saw her staring at him indignantly, full sized, impossible to ignore. Storming woman. She was right.
“Szeth,” she said, “is no more hopeless than they were. You remember how unwilling Rock was at the start?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, thinking back to days that—though excruciating at the time—were now fond to him. Sneaking through the night with Rock and Teft, fetching bundles of knobweed. Hearing Rock laugh for the first time, describing what he’d done to Sadeas’s meal.
They were both gone now. Teft dead. Rock maybe executed by his people. Still, Kaladin forced the dark thoughts behind him and presented good thoughts, like soldiers with spears, to keep them away. Syl was right. He could claim many things about himself, but he couldn’t justify the argument that he was only a killer. And life was good. He had felt it earlier.
It didn’t banish the darkness, but active thoughts, as counters to it, really did help.
“I just don’t know what I am anymore,” Kaladin said softly, more honestly, “or who. If I’m not a soldier, what is there to me? Wit told me to figure it out, but that terrifies me, Syl. I can’t be a surgeon like my father wants. I’m not one for a quiet life seeing patients about their bruised arms and strange coughs.”
“What about their bruised minds,” Syl said, “and strange thoughts?” She looked back toward the small fire.
Remarkably, Szeth had decided to try the stew. Oh, storms. Kaladin went hurrying over with an excuse ready.
Szeth had finished his bowl by the time he arrived. “I would eat this again, if you made it.”
Kaladin frowned. Had… simmering it made it work? He tried a bite, and found it exactly as bad as before. Except, well, it was probably better than field rations. Jerky with mashed-up, dried katfruit wasn’t the most appealing meal either.
Kaladin had been comparing his stew to Rock’s masterpieces. An impossible benchmark. But when the sole competition was field rations…
Szeth stood up, then nodded to the darkness that was the basin of Shinovar. “This is wrong.”
“Wrong? I don’t see anything.”
“There should be candle lights,” Szeth explained. “Fires at the homesteads and villages. I see only darkness. It’s like they’ve all simply vanished…”
Kaladin stepped up beside him, gazing out at the ocean of black.
“I… lied to you earlier,” Szeth admitted. “I do love my people, Kaladin. My exile makes it feel like I don’t care about anything, and sometimes I tell myself I don’t deserve to care. But… the exile was—for so long—my proof that I love them. I want to help my people. That is… more important to me than the quest, though that makes me a bad Skybreaker.”
“We will help them, Szeth,” Kaladin promised.
“Perhaps we will start by visiting my family homestead. To… see if it shows us anything.” Szeth handed back his bowl, then walked off and lay down, pulling his blanket over himself and turning away from Kaladin.
Well, that hadn’t been the laughter over a stewpot Kaladin had wanted, but it was something. He settled down and ate a bowl, finishing off what was left in the pot. He tried not to compare it to Rock’s stew, and it helped.
He didn’t want to get into the habit of lowering his standards, but conversely, never being willing to reassess was just as bad. Maybe he was expecting too much from Szeth too quickly. Kaladin had been patient with Bridge Four. He could show the same patience here, despite the tension of a world close to breaking.
With that in mind, he decided to pick up the flute and give it another go. He walked a distance away to not bother Szeth and forced himself to practice, and felt wind blowing across him as he did. A peaceful wind, of this place, where the grass wasn’t afraid. A wind he found comforting.
“Is that you?” Kaladin asked, lowering the flute.
Yes, the Wind whispered in his ear, causing Syl to perk up where she’d been sitting on the ground nearby. The music the ancient one taught you… it calls to me…
“I’ve done as you asked,” Kaladin said. “I’m here. I’m still not sure why, but I’m here. Can you tell me?”
Odium changes. His goals change. I… can speak now… when it was so hard for years…
“That has to do with Odium?” Syl asked.
He changes. His attention is not on me, the Wind said. The Stones have always had the capacity to speak, but only now started doing so. I am always here… Now I warn. Odium is made anew. This is dangerous.
Stay… Watch. I will watch too. I do not have answers yet, but I feel better that you are here. Together we must preserve a remnant of Honor. Somehow…
Kaladin thought on that as the Wind faded. He found himself again thinking of his friends, fighting without him. Remembering the trauma of Teft’s death. It was a fresh wound. He couldn’t fixate on it, he knew. Not and become a new person, like Wit said.
Eventually he went back to the flute. The Wind didn’t return, and his musical attempts were just as pathetic as they’d been earlier. But storm it, there was one thing that was reliably true about Kaladin Stormblessed. Regardless of his job or his location, even if you took away his ability to fight… he was still the most stubborn fool of a person who ever lived.
So he kept right on blowing awful notes on that flute. Right until he looked up and found the Herald Ishar standing in front of him.
* * *
The tower was strange on the other side. Really strange. And Lopen was, sure, an expert in strange things. He had plenty of strange cousins. He collected them.
So, he could say with authority this place was strange. Non-strange places didn’t glow. It was like an entire building had become Radiant, sucked in some Stormlight, and was now threatening to stick Huio to the wall.
Anticipationspren followed him like a posse as he and the other two Windrunners walked to the site of the explosion. This place was a perfect replica of the tower, only made of glowing glass stuff. The tower said waking it had restored it to its natural state. Which made Lopen wonder why his arm wasn’t made of glowing crystal on this side. That would be much better than the fleshy one. Not that he minded—it was good to have two arms again, as now he could eat chouta and point at things at the same time.
But a glowing crystal arm would be pretty deevy.
“You think,” he asked, “if I thought about it a lot, my arm would turn to crystal?”
Rua, his spren, shrugged. On this side, Rua was around three and a half feet tall—with messy hair, boundless energy, and the proportions of a child. He liked to skip rather than walk, and Lopen had heard that in his home city, Rua could float around all the time. Huio found it fascinating, and was always talking about it.
Thoughts of floating spren and crystal arms evaporated as Lopen reached the site of the blast. “Here, sir,” Isasik said. “We were in here…”
A smoking, broken chamber. All four walls had been cracked, and the one by the hallway had been completely destroyed. The crystalline ground had been blasted open in a pit, and the ceiling was a fractured web.
One broken corpse lay among the destruction.
“You’re certain?” Lopen asked.
“Yes, sir. When I returned to help after rescuing the guards, this is what I found—with that one dead man, who was so broken it made me worry…”
“What?” Lopen said. “That the others ended up as person-mush?”
Isasik looked ill, but nodded.
“There ain’t no person-mush in here,” Lopen said. “This blast was big, but not big enough—sure—to leave us without some kind of sign. Honestly, I expected to encounter some Shallan bits as we walked up that hallway. Pleasant to not find any.”
“So…” Isasik said.
“So, we have to assume they went through the perpendicularity,” Lopen said. “Or otherwise escaped.”
“That would transfer them back into the Physical Realm though,” Isasik said. “None of them are there.”
Lopen didn’t reply. Something was up. Navani wasn’t talking, and so the Sibling wasn’t talking, but he could smell it when something strange had happened. He was an expert in strange. The literal walls had secrets. Important, terrible secrets.
Which was super-okay with Lopen. If important people had it in hand, then he didn’t need to worry!
“I’m going to assume others have it covered,” he told Isasik. “Come on. We need to fly the Mink’s people to Herdaz.”
“But—”
“If they’re dead, can we do anything for them?”
“Well, no,” Isasik said, floating down to check on the dead man, who was very, very dead. Enough remained to tell it wasn’t any of their friends.
“If they escaped,” Lopen continued, “and don’t want anyone to know, will we help them by outing them?”
“No,” he said. “You know how Lightweavers are…”
“If they vanished into another realm, dimension, or place, is there anything we can do for them?”
“No,” Isasik said, floating up again. “That would take a Bondsmith.”
“So we report back,” Lopen said. “We’ve searched to make sure they aren’t being held captive. Now we have to assume it’s all going to work out, because whatever is going on, it’s bigger than we are.”
With that, he started toward the Oathgates. Rua hurried to catch up with him, and the spren—storm him—had a glowing crystal arm now.
“Show-off,” Lopen said, then hesitated and spoke more softly. “What do you think happened to them, naco? Why isn’t Navani more worried? Renarin is her family, and Shallan too. Navani shrugged at the news; she didn’t even put down her chouta. Have you ever seen her shrug before?” He paused. “Have you ever seen her eat chouta before?”
Rua pointed up at the distant sun, just barely visible through the refracting glass of the tower walls on this side.
“The sun?” Lopen said. “No… the realm beyond, where gods live. You think they really went there?”
Rua nodded enthusiastically.
“Well, Damnation,” Lopen said. “I guess, sure, they’re at least in the correct vicinity for some divine help…”
* * *
It was him. Ishar, standing right there in the night, on the grassy hillside. Kaladin hadn’t seen him approach, hadn’t heard anything, but he was there.
Syl gasped, getting up. Ishar turned away from the moon to study them. Kaladin had memorized the descriptions from Dalinar and Sigzil, but he didn’t need them. There was a force to this man, a feeling. Yes, he appeared like a normal person, with that ardentlike beard and bald head. Almost like… like he was a prototype for the religious order that had come after. Blue robes. Golden sash. Heavy bracelets.
But there was more unseen. The way the hairs on Kaladin’s arms stood up. The way the last vestiges of wind had suddenly vanished. The way the man could look at Kaladin and seem to see too much. That air… the very way he stood… reminded Kaladin of Ash, one of the other Heralds.
Ishar stepped toward Syl, his eyes narrowing. She raised her chin and did not grow small, though he suspected she wanted to flee. A part of Kaladin did too—wanted to be away from the gaze of this being who wasn’t entirely human.
But this was why he’d come.
“I do not… know you,” Ishar said, turning to Kaladin. “I know every other piece moving on this board. But you… I thought you were insignificant. Now you are here with the Truthless, bonded to the Ancient Daughter. What is your name?”
“Kaladin,” he replied. “Sometimes called Stormblessed.”
“Stormblessed. I do not remember blessing you.” Ishar frowned. “You are Connected to Dalinar, the false champion. And to Szeth, my servant. How?”
Kaladin steeled himself. “I was sent to help you.”
“What help needs a god?” Ishar asked.
“We all need help sometimes,” Kaladin said. “Do you… sometimes feel overwhelmed? Like you can’t trust your thoughts?” Storms. Did that sound silly?
“Dalinar sent you,” Ishar said. “I see now. He wants to confuse me, convince me I am not a god. I do not need your help, child. Your master has done enough damage already.”
“Damage?” Syl asked.
“Damage,” Ishar said, turning to regard the lightless, rolling Shin hills. “Your Bondsmith pretender attacked me. Changed me. I… saw things I thought I’d forgotten. In that moment, Tezim died, but I need that name no longer. I can be Ishar, who Ascended to the position of the Almighty.”
Dalinar had mentioned this. At the instant Navani had become a Bondsmith, Ishar had seen into the Spiritual Realm and grown lucid for a short time. So… was there an aftereffect here? Was he doing better?
Dalinar had mentioned oaths. If another were sworn near Ishar… perhaps he would return to himself. An unconventional means of therapy, but maybe…
Maybe Kaladin needed to appeal to the Herald, instead of the man. The Herald who had defended humankind for so long.
“Ishar,” Kaladin said. “We need your help.”
“Yes,” he said. “Your enemies crush and outmaneuver you because you haven’t come to me. I have plans to deal with them, and the greater threats beyond. Become my disciple, and I will show you.”
“We can… talk about that,” Kaladin said, glancing at Syl for support. “We have Ash and Taln with us, back at Urithiru. Your friends.”
Ishar sniffed. “Useless. Both of them.” He met Kaladin’s eyes. “Do you know what I do for them, child? I founded the Oathpact, so I can siphon some of their pains onto myself. I bear their darkness. Each of them would be crushed by it, were it not for me. You’ve seen Taln? He is insensate, so in the thrall of the darkness?”
“Yes,” Syl said.
“That is because I do not bear his darkness as I carry the others,” Ishar said. “They would all be as helpless if not for me. I am the conflux of all darkness and sorrow. Their pains are upon me. And still I stand before you. I am a god.”
“I just want to—” Kaladin said.
“I had not foreseen you, but perhaps I should have, considering your spiritweb and Connections.” He nodded toward Szeth in the distance. “Szeth has come to fulfill the task I set for him many years ago. His path will be difficult. If you would have my ear, prove to me that you can be of service.”
“In what way?” Syl asked.
“In helping me prepare for the end,” Ishar said softly. “The Truthless has returned at last. This land needs him.”
“Ishar,” Kaladin said. “I want to talk about the way you feel. Um… I want to—”
“I will speak to you,” Ishar said, “when the pilgrimage is finished. When the task is done.”
“But—”
Ishar’s eyes came alight, glowing as if with Stormlight—but manyfold. Beams of light that blinded Kaladin as he roared. “If you wish further audience with your god, then see his will done, child! This is the privilege of any disciple.”
The light faded, and Ishar was gone.
Storms.
“Great,” Syl said. “That went well.”
“Well?” Kaladin said. “He spouted nonsense at me, refused to listen, then vanished.”
“He also didn’t vaporize us or anything,” Syl said, floating a foot or so up into the air, shining softly in the darkness, hair blowing once more as the breeze returned. “And he’s crazy—so, you know, some nonsense is expected. He noticed you and offered you a chance to talk to him again.”
“He’ll talk to us again,” Kaladin said, “if we help Szeth do… whatever it is he’s supposed to do? We don’t have any idea what that is!” He ran a hand through his hair, but calmed himself. “That said, he seemed… a little better than Sigzil and Dalinar described him. I think.”
“We can help him, Kaladin,” she said, resting incorporeal hands on his arm. “We can try to help them all.”
“Not in time for Dalinar,” Kaladin said. “No telling how long Szeth’s little quest here will take? If Ishar won’t talk to me until it’s over…”
But, well, Wit had warned him. There was a task here that was greater than bringing Ishar to Dalinar—a task the Wind needed him to complete.
Preserve a remnant of Honor…
“What did he mean?” Syl wondered. “He said that Szeth was his servant. How?”
“Who knows,” Kaladin said. “He calls me a disciple and thinks he’s the Almighty.” He took a deep breath and packed up his flute, his music papers, and his gemstone light. “But… I guess you’re right. That could have gone far worse, and we can ask if Szeth has any thoughts tomorrow. For now though, I need some sleep.”
They hiked to the campfire, where Szeth was snoring quietly. Kaladin packed up dinner and banked the fire, absorbed in his thoughts. They tried to turn dark, but he kept battering them back with positive thoughts, like soldiers fighting on his behalf. Reminders that he had succeeded in the past, and could succeed again. Reminders that an idea wasn’t true just because it entered his head.
The darkness was still there and wanted him to believe things would never change, but this little victory proved the opposite. Because while he might never be rid of the thoughts permanently, he was done letting them win.
The End of Day Two
Excerpted from Wind and Truth, copyright © 2024 Dragonsteel Entertainment.
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