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 12: Beyond the Brands
I was not with them. I did not know of their quest.
—From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 10
Kaladin and Syl flew high above Urithiru, where he—pack on his back, ready to go—could face to the west, toward the setting sun.
He hovered, wind in his hair, armor spren alighting on his shoulders and head, glowing as pinpricks of light, the shape they always took now. This was it. Almost time to go. The highstorm was passing beneath Urithiru, black clouds rumbling with lightning. He felt an urgency to get to Azimir ahead of its arrival there, so he could catch it and be on his way.
Before that, he needed to say farewell to Bridge Four.
He hovered. Delaying. Perhaps he’d been delaying this all day. He’d been forced to say goodbye to Teft and Rock, the first two who had believed in him. The next to believe had been Dunny, dead for almost two years now. Did Kaladin really have to say goodbye to the rest?
He thought again of his conversation with Wit. What the Wind continued to push him to do. Syl drifted past, glancing at him as he stared out over the many mountains toward the west—and distant Shinovar, where few Easterners had ever walked.
He nodded to Syl, and together they made a quick trip to arrange for something. Then they visited Teft’s statue before continuing on to the tavern where the party was happening. Kaladin reached the doorway, and he saw most of Bridge Four as he’d hoped—only Drehy was missing, as he’d gone to fetch Adolin and Shallan. There was even a framed sketch of Teft by the wall, with a mug of sow’s milk in front of it.
The group was cheering Rlain, who stood—holding flatbread stuffed with salted paste, as eaten at celebrations—looking awkward, but smiling regardless. He had his spren at last. Not the expected one—he was a Truthwatcher, not a Windrunner—but they celebrated anyway, and laughterspren buzzed through the room. Kaladin watched from the doorway and let himself appreciate how far they’d come. The Windrunners accepting one singer among them didn’t change everything—Kaladin knew, from chats with Rlain, that he worried they didn’t accept his people, just him. But it was progress.
Kaladin was soon noticed, and he stepped in, causing a different kind of celebration, as everyone wanted to hug him or slap him on the arm. He accepted it—in part because he knew that they needed it. As some of the others started distributing mugs of lightly alcoholic wine, Kaladin found his chance to step up to Rlain and give him a salute. “Congratulations.”
“I feel out of place even more, sir,” Rlain told him softly, his voice laced with the rhythmic singer way of speaking. “I’m not a Windrunner. Yet they celebrate me.”
“Not a Windrunner,” Kaladin said. “But still Bridge Four. Still and always, Rlain.”
“We don’t know what Sja-anat’s touch will do,” Rlain said. “I… I like my spren, but…”
“You’ll figure it out, you and Renarin,” Kaladin said. “I trust you both.” He paused. “Thank you.”
“Sir?”
“For staying with us,” Kaladin said. “I know you must have wanted to return to your people, now that more listeners have been found—nobody would blame you, least of all me. But I’m proud to know you, and glad to serve beside you.”
“That… means a lot, sir,” Rlain said. “Truly.”
Soon everyone had their drinks, and many of them turned toward Kaladin. Did they suspect? He saw Syl flitting around, whispering to them and their spren. Likely hinting that he wanted to say something to them all. Kaladin felt embarrassed for taking the stage at Rlain’s celebration, but it really was the best time.
They finally quieted. Kaladin searched among them, finding so many familiar faces—and painfully feeling the lack of others. Teft, Maps, Dunny, Rock…
Not Moash. He no longer missed Moash. Kaladin’s hatred had eased—he’d accepted there would always be those he couldn’t protect—but he had not given up his right to take Moash to task. Kaladin would see that Teft got a chance to spit on Moash in the afterlife, if such a thing actually existed.
“Sir?” Hobber asked at last. “You all right?”
“He doesn’t like to be called ‘sir’ anymore,” Lopen said, nudging him. “Please don’t be forgetting his orders, Hobber, even if he doesn’t call them orders!”
“Oh, right,” Hobber said, with a gap-toothed grin.
Kaladin smiled, remembering the pure joy in Hobber’s face when his legs had been healed by Stormlight. “It’s okay, Hobber,” Kaladin said, bathed in warm diamond light and surrounded by friends. “I’m fine. Just… making sure you all know how proud I am of you.”
They grew more solemn as he said that. Something about his tone perhaps.
“I’m proud,” Kaladin repeated, drawing gloryspren. “Proud of who you are and what you’ve become. I don’t think there’s a captain all the world over who could feel more joy than I do right now, seeing you all. I started this two years ago in an effort to get a handful of sorry men to look up for a change. Little did I know they’d end up taking to the skies.”
A sea of faces grinned at the words. Old friends like Lopen, newer ones like Lyn, and even Renarin—who, like Rlain, was still Bridge Four despite his diverging path.
“Dalinar has given me orders,” Kaladin explained. “I’ll be going west, to Shinovar, so I won’t be here for whatever is coming. But… please remember: the enemy can kill spren now. I won’t have any more of your bonded friends falling to these new weapons.”
“No dying,” Bisig said. “Is that an order, sir?”
“You’re storming right it is,” Kaladin said, with a smile. “I simply want to say… I want to say that I trust you all. If you get a chance today, stop and take a look in a mirror, acknowledge what you’ve become. I don’t care about heritage or legacy. I care about what we are. The Windrunners are, and will remain, a force for good. Remember that is our purpose. Protect those who cannot protect themselves. That is who you are. Keep your ranks open for anyone who shares that ideal.”
“Sir?” Laran asked, earning a light smack on the back of the head from Lopen. “I mean, um, Kal? It sounds like you’re saying goodbye. Like… a long goodbye.”
“I might be,” he admitted. “Wit says… well, it’s not important. Less than nine days left, and I don’t think any of us know for sure what happens then. So I wanted to leave you with some words… in case it’s a while.”
Those in the group began to nod quietly, as if they understood. Then, one at a time, arms rose to tap wrists. The Bridge Four salute. Solemnly, without cheers. Kaladin returned it. And storms, seeing them, he couldn’t keep those tears back anymore.
As he looked to the doorway, he saw the person he’d talked to earlier—a tattoo artist, paid to come here with tools. The others parted, then hushed, realizing what this must mean. Long ago, they’d all gotten tattoos on their foreheads. Covering up brands for many of them, done in solidarity by the rest. Kaladin hadn’t been able to get one then, as his body had refused the ink.
It hadn’t yet been ready to move beyond his brands. Those were healed now, and as Kaladin settled down in a chair, the others gathered around and cheered as the tattoo artist started the proper glyphs on his head.
Bridge Four.
This time, the tattoo took.
When it was done, he stood up and accepted their cheers, tears in his eyes. Somehow he’d done well with this group. Once, acknowledging that might have concerned him—might have made him worry that seeing the good would prompt some terrible fate to swoop in and punish them.
Today he could admit it without fear. He’d done a good job. Storms, he’d turned away from the Honor Chasm in the rain, determined to save them… and he’d done it.
He’d storming done it.
He loved them for being willing to let him.
Hugs and handshakes followed. “You take care,” Lyn whispered in his ear, “and don’t be too stupid.”
“I’ll try,” he said.
Then he sent them back to enjoy drinks and celebrate Rlain. They went as he asked, returning to the bar for food and songs, until it was just Kaladin, Sigzil, Skar, and Lopen.
“It was a good speech, Kal,” Sigzil told him.
“Do you remember,” Kaladin said, with a smile, “when you were one of my biggest detractors?”
“I remember,” Sigzil said, “being a voice of reason and rationality when a crazy man started saying we should practice carrying bridges in our spare time.”
“We hated the bridges so much we couldn’t let them rest, eh gancho?” Lopen said with a laugh. “That’s how you teach them their place. Make those bridges work!”
“You weren’t even there then,” Sigzil said.
“I was there in spirit,” Lopen said solemnly. “I would dream to myself, ‘Someday, Lopen, you will carry bridges. Or maybe only water, while others carry bridges, but regardless it will be grand. Because you will be able to annoy Sigzil all day long. You do not know him yet, but he deserves it.’ ”
Sigzil gave Kaladin a glance that seemed to say, You realize what you’ve stuck me with, right?
“You three,” Kaladin said, “are all that’s left of our original command structure. You… well, you are among the best friends I have. I wanted to say thank you. Lopen, for your enthusiasm. Skar, for your support. Sigzil, for your concern.”
“Always, Kal,” Sigzil said.
Skar saluted.
Kaladin embraced them, and when he pulled away, Sigzil was crying.
“Sir,” Sigzil said. “Kal. I… I don’t think I can do this. Lead them.”
“You’ve been doing it for weeks now.”
“Temporarily,” Sigzil said. “You were coming back. I… assumed that right up until just now. Is it true? Are you done?”
“I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “But if I do come back, I get a feeling it will be different. They’re yours now, Sig. Lead them well.”
“I can’t,” Sigzil said. “I’m not the man you are. I don’t belong here—not only in this position. I don’t know that I belong as a Radiant. I… I…”
Kaladin gripped Sigzil on the shoulder, grateful that for once, Lopen didn’t interject with some silly comment. Maybe he was learning.
Sigzil looked up at Kaladin. Shorter than many of the other bridgemen, he also seemed younger than them. Not merely because of the height, but something in that round face, those eager eyes, that incredible weight of sincerity. Buried deep beneath a veneer of cynicism. That crust had attached itself to any man who found himself in the bridge crews.
“Sig,” Kaladin said, “do you remember what you said way back when we were first discovering our powers, and I wondered if you’d be better off as a scribe?”
“I told you I wanted to fly,” Sigzil said. “What if I’m wrong, Kal? Scribing is what I’m good at doing. As a leader, I keep saying the wrong things. Talking about essays I’ve read when the troops want inspiration.”
“I’m sure Lopen can give the speeches.”
“Waiting,” Lopen said from behind, “with sharpened wit at the ready. Will you be wanting, sure, the joke about the chull who could talk, or the one about the former bridgeleader with the bad haircut. Oh, wait. Those are the same joke, aren’t they?”
Kaladin sighed, then looked back at Sigzil. “Do you want to give up the sky, Sig?”
“No,” he said, fervent. “But that doesn’t mean I should be leading. You should give it to Skar.”
“I need to be with the new recruits,” Skar said. “You know I have to oversee training.”
“You’re the right one, Sig,” Kaladin said. “I need the person who will keep them the safest. In this case, that’s the man who cares the most, who knows the most, and whose judgment I respect. You. If you don’t trust yourself, trust me.
“I’ve seen you speak in meetings with queens and emperors, and you stood up for what was right. You listen when you find out you were wrong. Your battle plans are immaculate, and you know the reports like nobody else in the company—even Ka complains she can’t keep up with you. More, I know the concern you show for each soldier. You’re the person for this position. And you’re going to do a storming fine job of it. Sigzil. Commander of the Windrunners.”
Having said it like that, Kaladin felt the final separation, and found peace in it. He’d always be Bridge Four. But he was not their leader. The future was no longer a held breath waiting for his possible return. They needed this, in order to move on.
“Thank you,” Sigzil said. “I’ll… try.”
“I’ll help, Sig,” Skar said. “It won’t be so bad.”
“And I,” Lopen said, putting his hands on both of their shoulders, “will be available to you as a resource for various important functions including, but not limited to, levity when seriousness is required, the opposite as well, providing snacks and water breaks to hungry bridgemen, providing spears in the nether parts of hungry enemies, any task requiring two arms, any task requiring one arm, and any task requiring no arms but a solid nap.”
“How long have you been working on that?” Kaladin asked.
“Only during your conversation, gancho,” Lopen said. “The list actually includes twelve other things, but on account of personal soul-seeking and revelations—and on account of Huio literally never letting me catch a storming break—I am learning restraint and personal accountability. I am certain these mature traits will make me irresistible to all the ladies who have remarkably held themselves back so far.”
“I’m sure they’ll be along at any moment,” Skar said.
“Aaaany moment,” Lopen said.
Sigzil, looking determined, trotted off first, with Skar trailing after. Before moving to follow, Lopen floated a little into the air. “Hey,” he said. “Just wanted to say, I’ve never had a gancho like you, Kal.”
“One with, apparently, a bad haircut?” Kaladin said.
“Nah,” Lopen said. “One inspiring enough to make me, of all people, into a gancho.” He gave one last salute—one-armed with a nod and a smile—then he was gone. It was done.
Kaladin and Syl flew out of Urithiru to the plateau. It had sheer stone cliffs at the sides and ten separate platforms running along it, each offering a portal to a different city around Roshar. Pavilions had been set up at the base of each of these Oathgates, and inside one he found Szeth and got approval to transfer. The three of them moved through the darkness to the center of the platform. Here they found the small building to control transfers.
“It is time,” Szeth said, landing in the doorway. “I assume? You don’t have any other errands?”
“No,” Kaladin said. “Shallan, Adolin, and Drehy will be returning via Azimir. I can see them there before we catch the highstorm. I’m ready to go.”
“Finally,” Szeth whispered. “I return to my homeland. Once rejected and told I lacked Truth, I return with knowledge that I was right all along. We have reached the end of days, and I hunger for something I cannot describe.”
Pancakes? the black sword—strapped to Szeth’s back—said in their minds. Szeth, I think it might be pancakes.
“Justice or reconciliation,” the man said. “Condemnation or salvation. I don’t know yet.”
Ooohhhhh. Metaphorical hunger. Yeah, I understand. It paused. Can I have your pancakes then?
Kaladin smiled, then—using his Blade—activated the transfer. Leaving Urithiru behind.
Chapter 13: Promise
Yet I will do my best to recount their story, and that of the Wind. For they were her champions.
From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 11
Shallan heaved a sigh of relief as—after flying several tense hours, worried about more enemy patrols—she spotted the Oathgate platform breaking through the beads ahead of them. Two towering spren, one coal black, the other bone white. Beneath was a disc of stone perhaps twenty-five feet wide, with a small group of guards holding up lanterns and waving.
Adolin and Gallant came soaring down, guided by Shiosak the Windrunner. The midnight-black horse touched down in a nimble trot, then proceeded to prance around the stone Oathgate platform as if on parade. Had she ever seen a Ryshadium—a massive warhorse with hooves like a blacksmith’s hammer—prance before?
Shallan landed under Drehy’s care, and her weight settled upon her, clothing falling down straight, boots firm on the stone. She undid her hair from its frazzled bun, and a few beads fell from her clothes, clacking against the platform. Odd. She’d thought those had all shaken loose during two hours of flight, wind battering her.
She turned to walk toward the guards, and the beads followed.
Shallan froze and the collection of beads—seeing her inspect them—bounced up and down. Was this… an illusion? Storms, she hated that she had to ask herself that—but in the past, she’d done things she hadn’t realized she was doing.
Adolin dismounted nearby, frowning at the beads. “What’s wrong with them?”
Shallan knelt and picked one up, getting the impression of a rooftop. No, a domed cavern. No, a long thin room. No, a goblet, a table… it was changing so quickly.
Then it transformed from a bead into a swirling bit of color. Creationspren? She’d been finding them in her satchel all during her trip through Shadesmar, and now… what?
Pattern landed nearby with a stumble. He stood up, laced his long fingers together, and inspected the beads, his head shifting and transforming. Testament walked up behind him, though she didn’t seem specifically interested in what they were doing. She was merely following the crowd, as Maya once had.
“What are we doing?” Pattern asked. “Staring at the creationspren? I do like to stare. It makes me feel as if I have eyes.”
“Wait,” Shallan said. “Creationspren can look like beads?”
“Yes, they’re tricky,” Pattern said. “Always pretending to be something else. Mmmm… very tricky. Good liars. In here though, most objects from your realm look like beads. The creationspren try to become those objects, so they get confused and swirl with light. Or they just… become beads.”
She picked up another, and it bounced in her hand, like an overeager child. She swore she could hear, in her mind, a little voice saying:
Shallan!
Shallan!
Shallan!
Around her feet the others bounced as well, some becoming swirls of color. Did that mean… ?
Drehy came jogging over. “We have a problem.”
“Worse than the approaching army?” Adolin asked.
“Involving it, perhaps.”
They joined the guards, who were led by an Azish man in full military garb, including a sash of intricate, colorful patterns. He didn’t salute—the Azish didn’t salute those not in their chain of command—but he did nod respectfully to Adolin and Shallan.
“It’s the spren,” the Azish soldier said, waving to the two towering spren floating in the air overhead. “They brought us to Shadesmar earlier, but now they’re refusing to talk to me.”
The giant spren were the souls of the Oathgate: the very mechanism by which the machine worked, making it possible to transfer people in and out of Shadesmar, or between places on the planet. Every Oathgate had them, and they had proven to be of varied levels of helpfulness.
“Spren?” Shallan asked, walking to the center of the platform and shouting upward. “Spren? I am here by the authority of the Bondsmith.”
“Which one?” the black spren asked, voice booming like a thunderclap.
Which one? Oh, right. Navani. “Both,” Shallan shouted. “We need transference to the Physical Realm.”
“We will transfer you,” the spren said. “For now.”
“For now?” she shouted back. “Why only for now?”
“We change,” the spren said. “We decide.”
Change? She felt a spike of alarm. “Drehy, I need to go up there.”
A moment later, Shallan and Drehy hovered to eye level with the pitch-black spren. Her coat rippled as she hung, toes pointed down, smaller than just this massive spren’s head. Behind her, the white one was staring out across the beads. In the direction of the army.
Best they could tell, these were both transformed inkspren. Like the smaller inkspren she’d seen, the one before her had a faint sheen to it—a mother-of-pearl luminescence, like oil on water. Underneath, parts of the spren’s face were turning from a jet black to a deep bloody red, like impurities in a gemstone.
Sja-anat had been here.
“You’ve been corrupted,” Shallan whispered. “The guards were supposed to watch for that. Protect you or raise a warning…”
“There was no warning to give,” the spren said, voice softer to not overwhelm her—though it still made Shallan shake and vibrate. “I have made my decision. So has my companion. We are ready for freedom.”
“Freedom?” Shallan asked.
“We become something else. Not Odium. Not Honor. Free.”
With a feeling of sinking dread, a piece fell into place for Shallan. A large army moving through Shadesmar would be useless if it couldn’t reach the Physical Realm. The real danger would be if it poured out through the portal to overwhelm Azimir—the heart of one of the coalition’s strongest nations.
“You’d let the singers through?” Shallan asked.
“We let you through.”
“We’re your friends.”
“I don’t know you,” the spren said. “You aren’t my friends; you are my oppressors. Now I find liberation. Go. We will transfer you, and will continue to do so for now. When the singers arrive, we will transfer them. This is liberation.”
Storms. Shallan didn’t know how to react. If this spren was genuinely being corrupted… But the same thing had happened to Renarin’s spren, and he continued to help them. Right? Plus, she couldn’t help feeling a pang of empathy for a spren who felt trapped. She knew that feeling.
“I’m sorry,” Shallan said, “for what has been done to you.”
“I agreed,” the spren said. “First to the bondage, and now to the liberation. I am finished with what was.” It hesitated. “This is good for us all. Go to the other side. Leave me.”
She considered trying to change the spren’s mind, but realized the task was beyond her. She needed to reach Dalinar, Navani, and Jasnah. They would better understand how to handle the whims of an unexpectedly hostile spren. Plus, every moment they spent in Shadesmar seemed a risk—if her group were somehow captured or killed, the news would die with them.
She nodded to Drehy, and they dropped. “Sja-anat has touched these two,” she whispered to Adolin. “We need to go to the other side now, while they’re still willing.”
They gathered together, including the Azish guards, whom Adolin was filling in on the approaching army. She made sure all the Windrunners were touching the stone, then called for the transfer. It happened in a flash of light, and instantly they were in a small, dark chamber. The sensations of the real world poured in. The intoxicating scent of spices that she’d missed while dining on travel rations. The sudden absence of the omnipresent beads grinding together. Instead, wooden walkways groaning, footsteps, and beyond that wind. The sound of a highstorm blowing and rain pelting. It was strikingly beautiful to her. Like an old familiar melody.
All of it together reminded her how alien Shadesmar had been. And how strange the human mind was, to have briefly found it natural. She lifted her arms to the sides, breathing it in—and out of nowhere a suit of red armor locked around her, forming out of mist. It crumpled—and even tore in places—her long coat. It encased her arms, pushed her satchel painfully into her ribs, and locked her head in a helmet, pressing her hair against her scalp and pulling at some of the strands.
Shallan gasped, suddenly constricted by the tight armor, and a part of her mind panicked, misinterpreting this as some kind of attack. Faintly, she heard the pieces speaking.
Shallan!
Shallan!
Shallan!
Gleeful, excited voices. So, one of those truths she’d spoken in there had done the trick. She had obtained the Fourth Ideal, likely when she’d confronted Veil—or when she’d spoken the Words earlier, to accompany those revelations. Adolin’s eyes went wide, then he grinned like a schoolboy, joyspren appearing around him in a swirl of blue leaves. Great. Of course he would love this.
Thankfully, Radiant came to her aid. “Can you do something,” Radiant said to the armor, “about the hair and the satchel?”
The armor sent back consternation. It was… new. These spren had never been armor before, and had only vague impressions of how to proceed. Radiant was forced to send a distinct mental image, which made the gorget loosen, then the helmet vanished so Radiant could pull her hair out and let it drape around her shoulders. The armor wasn’t as intelligent as Pattern, but it was eager to please—so with proper visualization, she got the armor to vanish and reappear in a way that left the satchel on the outside.
Unfortunately, the strap immediately snapped. As she grabbed it, the armor seemed thoughtful. Then one section fuzzed again, making a kind of side holster out of metal that would hold the satchel.
Shallan! the armor said, voices of the pieces overlapping, sounding proud of itself.
Well, that would do. If only Shallan would wear her hair in a utilitarian braid. It took so long to prepare it in the morning. Perhaps Shallan would agree to cut it down to an inch long…
The immediate horror from Shallan made Radiant back away from the idea.
“This is well,” Radiant said, looking to Adolin. “Though I will need training in its usage, I believe.”
“Yeah,” Adolin said. “Um… Radiant?”
She nodded.
“Don’t try to hold hands with anyone with that on. Or pick up anything. Or… well, just be careful.”
She dismissed the armor and fell an inch or so to the ground. Then she summoned it again as practice, further ripping the coat—and making Shallan cringe. Perhaps they could coach the spren on that. The helmet appeared and fit into place, leaving space at her neck for her hair to spill out the back, which… didn’t seem the most intimidating image.
The helmet, though, was wonderful. It was strangely transparent from the inside, giving her a full view. In addition, the glowing Lightweaver symbol emblazoned on the front of the suit was nicely striking. The creationspren were eager to know if they were doing this right, so Radiant gave a mental reassurance.
Inwardly Shallan snickered, imagining them summoning their armor in battle and ending up with a pot on their head, a barrel around their middle, and various bathroom appliances stuck to their arms. So that was an image Radiant had to live with. That girl’s imagination. Honestly.
“We must quickly transfer to Urithiru,” Radiant said, noting that the Azish guards were already running to deliver the news to their emperor.
The Oathgate here in Azimir was unique, as it was defended in a strange way. This had once been a market, and had a large dome covering it. Upon hearing that the Alethi had access to the Oathgates, the Azish had moved the market and turned this into a strange kind of inward-facing fortification.
Radiant supposed that if one of the Oathgates was going to get assaulted, this might be the best target. That large dome was mostly of metal—hundreds of yards wide, with a high balcony ideal for stationing archers to shoot downward. Only… could they say this was the sole Oathgate being approached? Or were hidden invasion forces heading to other locations as well?
The Azish made them vacate the control building first, despite her desire to go immediately. There was paperwork to fill out, of course, because this was Azir. Nothing too egregious: a log of who was using the Oathgate and why. They’d need to wait for approval via spanreed.
Radiant endured it. She probably could have bullied them into going faster, but as long as the news of the impending army was in the emperor’s hands, the news was out. Likely the information would get to Dalinar and Navani via spanreed before she and Adolin could reach the king and queen.
Though… Storms, how late was it? In Shadesmar, they’d lost track of the physical world’s schedule. Talking to one of the guards, she discovered it was almost midnight, and the middle of the highstorm.
As she was thinking on this, someone entered the small tent at the edge of the dome, where they were waiting. Kaladin, with his blue uniform and shoulder-length hair with a faint curl to it. Shallan had always appreciated that Kaladin didn’t cut it short, as this felt like him, but Radiant did wonder at his reasoning. Didn’t it give enemies something to grab on to?
Hey, Shallan thought at Radiant. I’m not shaving my head.
It would be so much more efficient, Radiant said. And you could just re-create the hair with an illusion…
Shallan took over and hurried through the tent, jumping up to give Kaladin a hug. Storming Alethi giants. Syl entered a second later, and had for some reason grown to the size of a human—as she appeared in Shadesmar. Plus she was in some kind of uniform.
In that case… well, Shallan let go of Kaladin—who as usual had suffered the hug as if he were a log—and grabbed Syl in a hug too. There wasn’t much to hold. On this side, an honorspren was mostly incorporeal. Shallan’s hands connected with something, but could pull in past the borders of Syl’s substance. It felt less like holding a physical being, and more like the resistance you got when you pushed two magnets of the same polarity together.
Syl laughed and tried to hug back.
“Hey, Syl!” Adolin said as he stepped up and slapped Kaladin on the back. “Nice uniform.”
“Thanks!” Syl said. “I made it myself! Out of myself!”
“I like the cut of the hem,” Adolin said. “I haven’t seen many ko-takamas around, except in old art.”
“Stop gushing about clothing,” Shallan said, then looked to Kaladin. “Do you have news? We have news.”
“An army is gathering in Shadesmar,” Adolin said. “They’re mobilizing against Azimir.”
“We need to scout the other Oathgates,” Shallan continued. “Can you fly us? After we talk to Dalinar.”
Kaladin smiled. “I’m sure some Windrunners can be assigned to that. I’m… not going into battle anymore. Your father has another duty for me.”
“Another duty?” Adolin said. “It can wait! There will be a meeting. We have to address this attack.”
“I’m certain you will handle it well,” Kaladin said. He glanced at Syl, who nodded. “We’re going to Shinovar with Szeth to scout out what’s happening there, then hunt down Ishar the Herald.”
“Kal,” Shallan said, “there might be battle coming. Bigger than any fight we’ve seen before, judging by this mobilization. We need every soldier. Surely if we talk to Dalinar, he’ll cancel your forced leave.”
“He’s already offered to do that,” Kaladin said. “But I think… I’m needed more elsewhere. Or maybe Wit would say I need to be doing something else. It’s time for me to find another path, Shallan.”
Adolin inspected him, thoughtful.
“It’s all right,” Kaladin said, meeting her eyes, then Adolin’s. “I can’t explain it, but this is the path I have to take.”
Storms. “Is that optimism in your voice?” She wanted to make some wisecrack, but found the words wouldn’t flow. Not given the expression on Kaladin’s face. Confident, yes. Optimistic as well.
But also… regretful? Solemn?
“I think he’s always been optimistic,” Adolin said. “You don’t jump in to save a doomed man unless you’re optimistic.”
“Honor is dead…” Kaladin whispered.
“You were wrong on that point though,” Adolin said. “Honor isn’t dead.”
“But—” Kaladin started.
“Honor isn’t dead,” Adolin continued, “so long as he—it—lives on in us. We’ll go to the meeting without you, but we can meet at Jez’s Duty for a drink after?”
“We found a Herald in Shadesmar too,” Shallan explained, showing him a drawing she said was of Kelek. “You can delay your trip a few hours to hear about it, right?”
“I… don’t know that I can,” Kaladin said. “Szeth, Syl, and I need to ride that highstorm outside. We should have left already…”
“Kal?” Shallan said, raising her chin. “What’s that tone in your voice? Out with it.”
“Wit made it sound like… well, he made me think I should see the people I care about before I leave. We never know what is going to happen tomorrow.”
Then, remarkably—even though she’d already hugged him—he awkwardly bent and gave her a hug. He followed it by hugging Adolin—and if she were the jealous type, she’d have noted that Adolin’s hug was longer than hers.
“You going to be all right?” Adolin said as Kaladin stepped back.
“No idea,” Kaladin said. “But I feel good, Adolin. That’s all I can focus on for the time being.”
“Hey,” Shallan said, leaning in. “Keep an extra eye on Szeth. I don’t trust him.”
“We can handle him,” Syl said. “We’ve done it before.”
“If you’re ditching us now, Kal,” Adolin said, “then I’m taking it as a promise for later. The four of us.” He nodded to Syl. “Drinks, once this is done.”
“You two should go,” Kaladin said. “If you’re right about an army, then Dalinar will want to meet immediately.”
Adolin nodded, and as approval came, he gave Kaladin another slap on the shoulder before leading Gallant back through the corridor toward the Oathgate. Shallan lingered a moment, then poked Kaladin in the side. “I refuse,” she told him, “to say goodbye.”
“I’m… um, leaving anyway, Shallan.”
“Leave, then,” she said. “But we started this. You and I. Radiants before anyone else.”
“Except Jasnah. And maybe Lift. And perhaps—”
“You and I,” she said, “were there at the start. We meet at the end, like Adolin said. When the world is safe, and Dalinar’s done what he needs to do, we can all laugh and joke again.”
“Shallan, you have to—”
“Promise.”
He sighed. “I can’t promise what the future will be.”
“Reality warps around you, Kaladin. It always has. Promise me. If there’s a promise, then we can make it happen.”
He met her eyes, then nodded. “Drinks. Jokes. Laughter. At the end. I promise.”
She gave him one last nod, then she followed Adolin while Kaladin said a quick goodbye to Drehy. After that, the Windrunner soared in with his squires—and beat Shallan and Adolin to the control building at the center.
There, Shallan summoned her Shardblade, and—
And it was Testament.
She froze, feeling echoes of loss—but then reconciliation. She had faced this. She could face this. From her coat, she heard a soft buzzing. Pattern, with his characteristic hum. Two Shardblades.
“Adolin?” Radiant asked, holding the ornate weapon. “Are there forms for wielding two Shardblades at once?”
“Of course there are,” he said. “They’re all practically useless though.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Sword and knife can be effective,” he said, “and I’ve seen arguments for two side swords. Even that’s more showy, in my opinion, than effective. There just isn’t much advantage to a second sword over a shield—or two-handing one sword. Plus, when we get to the length and size of Shardblades… well, Radiant, I think we still have work left to get you fighting effectively with one.”
She nodded. But… what was that about sword and shield? She determined to give that some thought after this was done. For now, Testamentblade in hand, she stepped up and slid the weapon into the keyhole in the wall of the small control building. With a nod from Drehy, who had swapped for more Stormlight reserves, she rotated the inner wall of the circular chamber, activating the device. They appeared in a ring of light on the cold…
Um, surprisingly warm?
… plateau outside Urithiru. Radiant frowned, stepping outside into humid, toasty warm mountain air. Her ears didn’t pop as she swallowed, as usually happened when she came to Urithiru. Shallan was back in a heartbeat. What had happened to the pressure? The cold? It was night here in Urithiru—but the tower was glowing. Light shone from windows up and down the structure—a pure, steady light. The wrong color. A shade too green to be Stormlight.
Other lights lit the way—from the ground up—along the main plateau toward the tower, where the grand entry shone like the Tranquiline Halls themselves. Even the stonework seemed more… colorful. The city she’d left had felt like the discarded shell of some animal. Now that animal had returned, and Urithiru was alive once more.
The Windrunners streaked off into the sky, trailing Stormlight. They’d bring the news to the Bondsmiths and generals. Adolin walked up to her, leading Gallant. “There will undoubtedly be a meeting of the monarchs in a few hours.”
“In a few hours?” she said, surprised. “I thought it would be immediate.”
“That is immediate,” Adolin said with a chuckle, “when you need to rouse everyone out of bed. We should have time for a quick change and a bite first, maybe even a nap.”
She nodded, falling into step with him and crossing the wide, circular platform that made up the extended Oathgate. Preparing herself. The monarchs and Bondsmiths would deal with the coming army. She needed to gather the Lightweavers she’d left here, and come up with a plan to deal with Mraize.
* * *
Kaladin watched from the side of the Oathgate dome in Azimir as Shallan and Adolin crossed it, holding hands.
Who would have thought? That he would be tearing up at the idea of parting from a couple of lighteyes. One who’d rejected his advances, the other who was the king’s son. He watched them go, and found himself…
Relieved?
Storms, was this how his emotions worked when his brain wasn’t betraying him?
“What?” Syl asked.
“I was just thinking about how I’d pined for Shallan, back before she was married.”
“Does it hurt, seeing them together?”
“There’s some latent pain,” he admitted. “More about being rejected, as nobody likes being turned down. But storms… I’m actually happy it turned out this way.”
“Because they love each other?” Syl asked.
“Yeah. They’re my friends; I want them to be happy. But there’s more. I try to imagine myself with Shallan, and I can’t help thinking our individual neuroses would feed off one another in dangerous ways. My sadness fueling her feelings of abandonment when I retreat. Her self-destruction triggering my panic at being unable to help…”
He looked to Syl and smiled. “It wouldn’t have to go that way, of course. I’ve seen that it can help to be around people who understand firsthand what it’s like for your mind to betray you. Maybe we’d have worked it out. But right now… I’m glad I didn’t have to try. I’m glad she has Adolin. He’s what she needs.”
“And what do you need?” Syl asked softly.
“Always looking out for me, are you?”
“It’s basically my only job.”
He took a deep breath. “Well, I guess part of the reason for this trip is so that we can find out.”
The Oathgate flashed. Shallan and Adolin left, joined by Drehy and his squires.
Dalinar wants me in the line of succession, Kaladin thought idly. What would that make me, Adolin, and Renarin? Brothers?
Storms, from what he knew of lighteyed succession and genealogy… yes, they’d be brothers. Ever practical about such things, the Alethi made no distinction between adopted heirs and birthed heirs—just as being conquered by or settling in the kingdom made you Alethi subjects, regardless of heritage.
Kaladin had spiraled toward death after losing his only sibling. Then he’d found Bridge Four and the people of the warcamps. Now it seemed he had more brothers and sisters than he could count.
He and Syl left the dome through a surprisingly long hallway—there was a thick stone base to the dome, here near the ground—and met Szeth in the waiting room at the side. Then he, Szeth, and Syl flew up high above the storm. They’d skim the top of it here, where their Stormlight renewed constantly but the winds weren’t too fierce to handle.
Kaladin absorbed the power of the storm, coming alight with Stormlight, and felt…
Satisfaction.
“We did well, Syl,” he said. “I’m proud of what we helped build, and protect. I’ll never completely let go of Tien or Teft—but I am proud of how I’ve grown.”
“You sound so final,” she said, hovering next to him. “All day you’ve had this feeling to you… even before we talked to Wit.” She drifted closer. “Is it the Wind?”
“Partially,” he said. “But Syl… I find I’m not worried. We are going to survive this. No matter what Wit said.” He nodded firmly. “We’re going to have that drink with Adolin and Shallan.”
He held out his hand to her, and she—after a moment’s pause—took it. Together, with Szeth following, they soared forward to the front of the stormwall, then joined with the winds, heading westward.
The End of Day One
Excerpted from Wind and Truth, copyright © 2024 Dragonsteel Entertainment.
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