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.
Dedication
For Adam Horne
Who is a champion of books, and deserves his own Shardblade.
Preface
Welcome to Wind and Truth, Book Five of the Stormlight Archive. This is the midpoint in the series, and the ending of the first major arc. As such, I have wrestled with this book more than most, giving it a great portion of my thoughts, passion, and effort over the last four years. This is, to date, the longest book I’ve ever written—and this is among the longest amounts of time I’ve ever spent on a book. (Probably the longest, if you don’t count projects I set down and came back to years later.) I hope you’ll find the result worth the effort!
Please sit back and enjoy the show. A highstorm is brewing.
Prologue: To Live
Seven and a half years ago
Gavilar Kholin was on the verge of immortality.
He merely had to find the right Words.
He walked a circle around the nine Honorblades, driven point-first into the stone ground. The air stank of burned flesh; he’d attended enough funeral pyres to know that scent intimately, though these bodies hadn’t been burned after the fighting but during it.
“They call it Aharietiam,” he said, trailing around the Blades, letting his hand linger on each one. When he became a Herald, would his Blade become like these, imbued with power and lore? “The end of the world. Was it a lie?”
Many who name it such believed what they said, the Stormfather replied.
“And the owners of these?” he said, gesturing to the Blades. “What did the Heralds believe?”
If they had been entirely truthful, the Stormfather said, then I would not be seeking a new champion.
Gavilar nodded. “I swear to serve Honor and Roshar as its Herald. Better than these did.”
These words are not accepted, the Stormfather said. You will never find them at random, Gavilar.
He would try nonetheless. In becoming the most powerful man in the world, Gavilar had often accomplished what others thought impossible. He rounded the ring of Blades again, alone with them in the shadow of monolithic stones. After dozens of visits to this vision, he could name each and every Blade by its associated Herald. The Stormfather, however, continued to be reticent to share information.
No matter. He would have his prize. He ripped Jezrien’s long, curved Blade from the stone and swung it, cutting the air. “Nohadon met and grew to know the Heralds.”
Yes, the Stormfather admitted.
“They are in there, aren’t they?” he said. “The correct Words are somewhere in The Way of Kings?”
Yes.
Gavilar had the entire book memorized—he’d taught himself to read years ago so he could search for secrets without revealing them to the women in his life. He tossed the Herald’s Blade aside, letting it clang against the stone—which made the Stormfather hiss.
Gavilar mentally chided himself. This was just a vision, and these fake Blades were nothing to him, but he needed the Stormfather to think him pious and worthy at least for now. He took up Chana’s Blade. He was fond of this one, as its ornamentation bifurcated the blade with a slit down the center. That long gap would be highly impractical for a normal sword. Here it was a symbol that this Blade was something incredible.
“Chanaranach was a soldier,” he said, “and this is a soldier’s Blade. Solid and straight, but with that little impossibility missing from the center.” He held the Blade in front of him, examining its edge. “I feel I know them each so well. They are my colleagues, yet I could not pick them out of a crowd.”
Your colleagues? Do not get ahead of yourself, Gavilar. Find the Words.
Those storming Words. The most important ones Gavilar would ever say. With them, he would become the Stormfather’s champion—and, he had deduced, something more. Gavilar suspected he would be accepted into the Oathpact and ascend beyond mortality. He had not asked which Herald he would replace; it felt crass, and he did not want to appear crass before the Stormfather. He suspected, though, that he would replace Talenelat, the one who had not left his Blade.
Gavilar stabbed the sword back into the stone. “Let us return.”
The vision ended immediately, and he was in the palace’s second-floor study. Bookshelves, a quiet desk for reading, tapestries and carpets to dampen voices. Gavilar wore finery for the upcoming feast: regal robes more archaic than fashionable. Like his beard, the clothing stood out among the Alethi lighteyes. He wanted them to think of him as something ancient, beyond their petty games.
This room was technically Navani’s, but it was his palace. People rarely looked for him here, and he needed a reprieve from little people with little problems. As he had time before his meetings, Gavilar selected a small book that listed the latest surveys of the region around the Shattered Plains. He was increasingly certain that place held an ancient unlocked Oathgate. Through it, Gavilar could find the mythical Urithiru, and there, ancient records.
He would find the right Words. He was close. So tantalizingly close to what all men secretly desired, but only ten had ever achieved. Eternal life, and a legacy that spanned millennia—because you could live to shape it.
It is not so grand as you think, the spren said. Which gave Gavilar pause. The Stormfather couldn’t read his mind, could it? No. No, he’d tested that. It didn’t know his deepest thoughts, his deepest plans. For if it did know his heart, it wouldn’t be working with him.
“What isn’t?” Gavilar asked, slipping the book back.
Immortality, the Stormfather said. It wears on men and women, weathering souls and minds. The Heralds are insane—afflicted with unnatural ailments unique to their ancient natures.
“How long did it take?” Gavilar asked. “For the symptoms to appear?”
Difficult to say. A thousand years, perhaps two.
“Then I will have that long to find a solution,” Gavilar said. “A much more reasonable timeline than the mere century—with luck—afforded a mortal. Wouldn’t you say?”
I have not promised you this boon. You guess it is what I offer, but I seek only a champion. Still, tell me, would you accept the cost of becoming a Herald? Everyone you know would be dust by the time you returned.
And here, the lie. “A king’s duty is to his people,” he said. “By becoming a Herald, I can safeguard Alethkar in a way that no previous monarch ever has. I can endure personal pain to accomplish this. If I should die,” Gavilar added, quoting The Way of Kings, “then I would do so having lived my life right. It is not the destination that matters, but how one arrives there.”
These words are not accepted, the spren said. Guessing will not bring you to the Words, Gavilar.
Yes, well, the Words were in that volume somewhere. Sheltered among the self-righteous moralizing like a whitespine in the brambles. Gavilar Kholin was not a man accustomed to losing. People got what they expected. And he expected not just victory, but divinity.
The guard knocked softly. Was it time already? Gavilar called for Tearim to come in, and he did. The guard was wearing Gavilar’s own Plate tonight.
“Sire,” Tearim said, “your brother is here.”
“What? Not Restares? How did Dalinar find me?”
“Spotted us standing watch, I suspect, Your Majesty.”
Bother. “Let him in.”
The guard withdrew. A second later Dalinar burst in, graceful as a three-legged chull. He slammed the door and bellowed, “Gavilar! I want to go talk to the Parshendi.”
Gavilar took a long, deep breath. “Brother, this is a very delicate situation, and we don’t want to offend them.”
“I won’t offend them,” Dalinar grumbled. He wore his takama, the robe of the old-fashioned warrior’s garb open to show his powerful chest—with some grey hairs. He pushed past Gavilar and threw himself into the seat by the desk.
That poor chair.
“Why do you even care about them, Dalinar?” Gavilar said, right hand to his forehead.
“Why do you?” Dalinar demanded. “This treaty, this sudden interest in their lands. What are you planning? Tell me.”
Dear, blunt Dalinar. As subtle as a jug of Horneater white. And equally smart.
“Tell me straight,” Dalinar continued. “Are you planning to conquer them?”
“Why would I be signing a treaty if that were my intent?”
“I don’t know,” Dalinar said. “I just… I don’t want to see anything happen to them. I like them.”
“They’re parshmen.”
“I like parshmen.”
“You’ve never noticed a parshman unless he was too slow to bring your drink.”
“There’s something about these ones,” Dalinar said. “I feel a… a kinship.”
“That’s foolish.” Gavilar walked to the desk and leaned down beside his brother. “Dalinar, what’s happening to you? Where is the Blackthorn?”
“Maybe he’s tired,” Dalinar said. “Or blinded. By the soot and ashes of the dead, constantly in his face…”
Again Dalinar whined about the Rift? What an enormous hassle. Restares would be here soon, and then… there was Thaidakar. So many knives to keep balanced perfectly on their tips, lest they slide and cut Gavilar. He couldn’t deal with Dalinar having a crisis of conscience right now.
“Brother,” Gavilar said, “what would Evi say if she saw you like this?”
It was a carefully sharpened spear, slipped expertly into Dalinar’s gut. The man’s fingers gripped the table, and he recoiled at her name.
“She would want you to stand as a warrior,” Gavilar said softly. “And protect Alethkar.”
“I…” Dalinar whispered. “She…”
Gavilar offered a hand and heaved his brother to his feet, then led him to the door. “Stand up straight.”
Dalinar nodded, hand on the doorknob.
“Oh,” Gavilar said. “And Brother? Follow the Codes tonight. There is something strange upon the winds.”
The Codes said not to drink when battle might be imminent. Just a nudge to remind Dalinar that it was a feast, and that there was plenty of wine on hand. Though Dalinar still thought no one knew he’d killed Evi, Gavilar had found the truth, which let him use these subtle manipulations.
Dalinar was out the door a moment later, his lumbering, pliable brain likely focused on two things. First, what he’d done to Evi. Second, how to find something strong enough to make him forget about the first.
When Dalinar was off down the hallway, Gavilar waved Tearim close. The guard was one of the Sons of Honor, a group that was yet another knife Gavilar kept balanced, for they could never know he had outgrown their plans.
“Follow my brother,” Gavilar said. “Subtly ensure that he gets something to drink; maybe lead him to my wife’s secret stores.”
“You had me do that a few months ago, sire,” Tearim whispered back. “There’s not much left, I’m afraid. He likes to share with his soldiers.”
“Well, find him something,” Gavilar replied. “I can let Restares and the others in when they arrive. Go.”
The soldier bowed and followed Dalinar, Shardplate thumping. Gavilar shut the door firmly. When the Stormfather’s voice pushed into his mind, he was not surprised.
He has potential you do not see, that one.
“Dalinar? Of course he does. If I can keep him pointed the right direction, he will burn down entire nations.” Gavilar simply had to ply him with alcohol the rest of the time, so that he didn’t burn down this nation.
He could be more than you think.
“Dalinar is a big, dumb, blunt instrument you apply to problems until they break,” Gavilar said, then shivered, remembering seeing his brother approach across a battlefield. Soaked in blood. Eyes appearing to glow red within his helm, hungry for the life Gavilar lived…
That ghost haunted him. Fortunately, both Dalinar’s pain and his addiction made him easy enough to control.
Gavilar was soon interrupted by another knock. He answered the door and found nothing outside, until the Stormfather hissed a warning in his mind and he felt a sudden chill.
When he turned around, old Thaidakar was there. The Lord of Scars himself, a figure in an enveloping hooded cloak, tattered at the bottom. Storms.
“I was made promises,” Thaidakar said, hood shadowing his face. “I’ve given you information, Gavilar, of the most valuable nature. In payment I requested a single man. When will you deliver Restares to me?”
“Soon,” Gavilar said. “I am gaining his confidence first.”
“It seems to me,” Thaidakar said, “that you’re less interested in our bargain, and more interested in your own motives. It seems to me that I directed you toward something valuable you’ve decided to keep. It seems to me that you play games.”
“It seems to me,” Gavilar said, stepping closer to the cloaked figure, “that you’re not in a position to make demands. You need me. So why don’t we just… keep playing.”
Thaidakar remained still for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he reached up with gloved hands and took down his hood. Gavilar froze—for despite their several interactions, he’d never before seen the man’s face.
Thaidakar was made entirely of softly glowing, white-blue light. He was younger than Gavilar had imagined—in his middle years, not the wizened elder he’d seemed. He had a large spike, also blue, through one eye. The point jutted out the back of his skull. Was he some kind of spren?
“Gavilar,” Thaidakar said, “take care. You’re not immortal yet, but you’ve begun to play with forces that rip mortals apart by their very axi.”
“Do you know what they are?” Gavilar demanded, hungry. “The most important Words I’ll ever speak?”
“No,” Thaidakar said. “But listen: none of this is what you think it is. Deliver Restares to my agents, and I will help you recover the ancient powers.”
“I’ve grown beyond that,” Gavilar said.
“You can’t ‘grow beyond’ the tide, Gavilar,” Thaidakar replied. “You swim with it or get swept away. Our plans are already in motion. Though to be honest, I don’t know that we did much. That tide was coming regardless.”
Gavilar grunted. “Well, I intend to—”
He was cut off as Thaidakar transformed. His face melted into a simple floating sphere with some kind of arcane rune at the center. The cloak, body, and gloves vanished into wisps of smoke that evaporated away.
Gavilar stared. That… that looked a lot like what he’d read of the powers of Lightweavers. Knights Radiant. Was Thaidakar—?
“I know you’re meeting Restares today,” the sphere said, vibrating—it had no mouth. “Prepare him, then deliver him to my agents for questioning. Or else. That is my ultimatum, Gavilar. You would not like to be my enemy.”
The sphere of light shrank and turned nearly transparent as it moved to the door, then bobbed down and vanished through the crack underneath.
“What was that?” Gavilar demanded of the Stormfather, unnerved.
Something dangerous, the spren replied in his mind.
“Radiant?”
No. Similar, but no.
Gavilar found himself trembling. Which was stupid. He was a storming king, soon to be a demigod. He had a destiny; he would not be unsettled by cheap tricks and vague threats. Still, he rested his hand against the desk and breathed deeply, his fingers disturbing scattered notes and diagrams from his wife’s latest mechanical obsession. Not for the first time he wondered if Navani could crack this problem. He missed the way they’d once schemed. How long had it been since they’d all laughed together? He, Ialai, Navani, and Torol?
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the kind of secret you shared. Ialai or Sadeas would seize the prize from him if they could—and Gavilar wouldn’t blame them. Navani though… would she try to take immortality for herself? Would she even see its value? She was so clever, so crafty in some ways. Yet when he spoke of his goals for a greater legacy, she got lost in the details. Refusing to think of the mountain because she worried about the placement of the foothills.
He regretted the distance between them. That coldness growing over—well, grown over—their relationship. Thinking of her sent a stab of pain into his heart. He should…
Everyone you know will be dust by the time you return…
Perhaps this way was best.
He had plans to mitigate the length of his absence from this world, but they might take several tries to perfect. So… fewer attachments seemed better. To allow for a cleaner cut. Like one made with a Shardblade.
He bent his mind to his plans, and was well prepared by the time Restares arrived. The balding man didn’t knock. He peeked in, nervously checking each corner before he slipped through the door. He was followed by a shadow: a tall, imperious Makabaki man with a birthmark on one cheek. Gavilar had instructed the servants to treat them as ambassadors, but he hadn’t yet had a chance to speak with this second man, whom he didn’t know.
The newcomer walked with a certain… firmness. Rigidity. He wasn’t a man who gave way. Not to wind, not to storm, and most certainly not to other people.
“Gavilar Kholin,” the man said, offering neither a hand nor a bow. They locked stares. Impressive. Gavilar had expected… well, someone more like Restares.
“Have a drink,” Gavilar said, gesturing toward the bar.
“No,” the man said. Without a thank-you or compliment. Interesting. Intriguing.
Restares scuttled over like a child offered sweets. Even now—after joining this newest incarnation of the Sons of Honor—Gavilar found Restares… odd. The short, balding man sniffed at each of the wines. He had never trusted a drink in Gavilar’s presence, but always tested them anyway. As if he wanted to find poison, to prove his paranoia was justified.
“Sorry,” Restares said, wringing his hands as he hovered over the drinks. “Sorry. Not… not thirsty today, Gavilar. Sorry.”
Gavilar was close to tossing him aside and seizing control of the Sons of Honor. Except some of the others, like Amaram, respected him. Plus… why was Thaidakar so interested in Restares? Surely he couldn’t actually be someone important. Perhaps his tall friend was the true power. Could Gavilar have been kept in the dark for two years about something that vital?
“I’m glad you were willing to meet,” Restares said. “Yes, um. Because, um. So… Announcement. I have an announcement.”
Gavilar frowned. “What is this?”
“I hear,” Restares said, “that you’re looking to, um, restore the Voidbringers?”
“You founded the Sons of Honor, Restares,” Gavilar said, “to recover the ancient oaths and restore the Knights Radiant. Well, they vanished when the Voidbringers did. So if we bring back the Voidbringers, the powers should return.”
More importantly, he thought, the Heralds will return from the land of the dead to lead us again.
Letting me usurp the position of one of them.
“No, no, no,” Restares said, uncharacteristically firm. “I wanted the honor of men to return! I wanted us to explore what made those Radiants so grand. Before things went wrong.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Before… I made them… go wrong…”
Restares wouldn’t meet Gavilar’s eyes. “We… we should stop trying to restore the powers,” Restares said, his voice wilting, and glanced to his stern friend—as if for support. “We can’t… afford another Return…”
“Restares,” Gavilar said, advancing on the little man. “What is wrong with you? You’re talking about betraying everything we believe?” Or at least pretend to believe. Gavilar subtly placed himself so he loomed over Restares. “Have you heard of a man named Thaidakar?”
Restares looked up, his eyes widening.
“He wants to find you,” Gavilar said. “I have protected you thus far. What is it he wants from you, Restares?”
“Secrets,” Restares whispered. “The man… can’t abide… anyone having secrets.”
“What secrets?” Gavilar said firmly, making Restares cringe. “I’ve put up with your lies long enough. What is going on? What does Thaidakar want?”
“I know where she is hidden,” Restares whispered. “Where her soul is. Ba-Ado-Mishram. Granter of Forms. The one who could rival Him. The one… we betrayed.”
Ba-Ado-Mishram? Why would Thaidakar care about an Unmade? It seemed such an oddly shaped piece of the puzzle. Gavilar opened his mouth to speak, but a hand squeezed his shoulder, fingers like a vise. Gavilar turned to see Restares’s Makabaki friend standing behind him.
“What have you done?” the man asked, his voice icy. “Gavilar Kholin. What actions have you taken to achieve this goal of yours, the one that my friend mistakenly set you upon?”
“You have no idea,” Gavilar said, meeting the stranger’s eyes until the man finally released his grip.
Gavilar took a pouch from his pocket, then casually spilled a selection of spheres and gemstones onto the table. “I’m close. Restares, you must not lose your nerve now!”
The stranger stared, his lips parting. He reached toward one of the spheres that glowed with a dark, almost inverted violet light. Impossible light; a color that should not exist. As soon as the stranger’s fingers drew close, he yanked them away, then turned wide eyes on Gavilar.
“You are a fool,” the man said. “A terrible fool charging toward the highstorm with a stick, thinking to fight it. What have you done? Where did you get Voidlight?”
Gavilar smiled. None of them knew of the secret scholar he kept in reserve. A master of all things scientific. A man who was neither Ghostblood nor Son of Honor.
A man from another world.
“It is set in motion,” Gavilar said, glancing at Restares. “And the project was a success.”
Restares perked up. “It… it was? Is that LFight…” He turned to his friend. “This could work, Nale! We could bring them back, then destroy them. It could work.”
Nale. Oh, storms. Gavilar knew—but tried to ignore—that Restares pretended to be a Herald to impress the others. The little man didn’t know Gavilar had become familiar with the Stormfather, who had told him the truth: that the Heralds had all long since died and gone to Braize.
So was this stranger pretending to be Nalan, Herald of Justice? He… had the right look. Many of the depictions were of an imperious Makabaki man. And that birthmark… it was strikingly similar to one on several of the older paintings.
But no. That was ridiculous. To believe that, one would have to believe that Restares—of all people—was a Herald.
The stranger tried to stare Gavilar down. Motionless, his expression cold. A monolith instead of a man. “This is far too dangerous.”
Gavilar continued to hold his gaze. The world would bend to his desires. It always had before.
“But you are,” the man eventually said, stepping back, “the king. Your will… is law… in this land.”
“Yes,” Gavilar said. “That is correct. Restares, I have more good news. We can move Voidlight from the storm to the Physical Realm. We can even carry it between here and Damnation, as you wanted.”
“That’s a way,” Restares said, looking to Nale. “A way… maybe to escape…”
Nale waved to the spheres. “Being able to bring them back and forth from Braize doesn’t mean anything. It’s too close to be a relevant distance.”
“It was impossible only a few short years ago,” Gavilar said. “This is proof. The Connection is not severed, and the box allows for travel. Not yet as far as you’d like, but we must start the journey somewhere.”
He wasn’t certain why Restares was so eager to move Light around in Shadesmar. Thaidakar wanted this information as well. A way to transport Stormlight, and this new Voidlight, long distances. As he was contemplating that, Gavilar saw something. The door was cracked. An eye was peeking through.
Damnation. It was Navani. How much had she heard?
“Husband,” she said, immediately pushing into the room. “There are guests missing you at the gathering. You seem to have lost track of time.”
He smothered his anger at her spying, turning to Restares and his friend. “Gentlemen, I will need to excuse myself.”
Restares again ran his hand through his wispy hair. “I want to know more of the project, Gavilar. Plus, you need to know that another of us is here tonight. I spotted her handiwork earlier.”
Another one? Another Son of Honor.
No, he meant another Herald. Restares was growing more delusional.
“I have a meeting shortly with Meridas and the others,” Gavilar said, calmly soothing Restares. “They should have more information for me. We can speak again after that.”
“No,” the Makabaki man growled. “I doubt we shall.”
“There’s more here, Nale!” Restares said, though he followed as Gavilar ushered the two of them from the room. “This is important! I want out. This is the only way…”
Gavilar shut the door. Then turned to his wife. Damnation, she should know better than to interrupt him. She…
Storms. The dress was beautiful, her face more so, even when angry. Staring at him with brilliant eyes, a fiery halo almost seeming to spread around her.
Once more, he considered.
Once more he rejected the idea.
If he was going to be a god, best to sever attachments. The sun could love the stars. But never as an equal.
* * *
Some time later, after he’d seen to Navani, Gavilar slipped away again. To his chambers this time, where he could confront what he’d learned.
“Tell me,” he said, walking across the springy carpet to regard the tabletop map of Roshar. “Why is Thaidakar so interested in Ba-Ado-Mishram?”
The Stormfather formed a rippling beside Gavilar, vaguely in the shape of a person, but indistinct. Like the wavering in the air made by great heat on the stones.
She created your parshmen by accident, he said. Long ago, just before the Recreance, Mishram tried to rise up and replace Odium, giving the Voidbringers powers.
“Curious,” Gavilar said. “And then?”
And then… she fell. She was too small a being to uphold an entire people. It all came crashing down, and so some brave Radiants trapped Mishram in a gemstone to prevent her from destroying all of Roshar. A side effect created the parshmen.
Simple parshmen. They were Voidbringers. A delicious secret he’d pried out of the Stormfather some weeks ago. Gavilar strolled to the bookcase, where one of the new heating fabrials had been delivered to him by the scholar Rushur Kris. He took it from its cloth casing, weighing it.
He had found a way to ferry Voidspren through Shadesmar to this world using gemstones and aluminum boxes. Who would have thought Navani’s pet area of study would be so useful? And if that conniving Axindweth eluded his grasp, he’d have to do the next part without her. He had his scholar, though in truth Gavilar was baffled by the Light he was creating… Light that could somehow kill the Voidbringers? How had Vasher made—
He thought he heard a faint crackling sound from the Stormfather. Lightning? How cute.
“You’ve never challenged what I’m doing,” Gavilar said. “I would have thought that returning the Voidbringers would be opposed to your very nature.”
Opposition is sometimes needed, the Stormfather said. You will need someone to fight, should you become champion.
“Give it to me,” Gavilar said. “Now. Make me a Herald. I need it.”
The Stormfather turned a shimmering head in his direction. That was almost them.
“What, those?” Gavilar said. “A demand?”
So close. And so far.
Gavilar smiled, hefting the fabrial and thinking of the flamespren trapped inside. The Stormfather seemed increasingly suspicious, hostile. If things did go poorly… could he trap the Stormfather himself in one of these?
Soon Amaram arrived with a small collection of people: two men, two women. One man was Amaram’s lieutenant. The other three would be new important Sons of Honor recruits, invited to the feast and given exclusive time with the king after. It was an annoyance, but a worthy one. Gavilar identified the two women from the notes, but not the older man in robes. Who was he? A stormwarden? Amaram liked to keep them around, to teach him their script, which preserved some semblance of Vorin devotion. That was important to him.
Gavilar met each guest in turn, and as he reached the older man, something clicked. This was Taravangian, the king of Kharbranth. Famously a man of little consequence or aptitude. Gavilar glanced at Amaram. Surely they weren’t going to invite him into their confidence—they should find the power who secretly ruled Kharbranth. Likely to be one of two women, per Gavilar’s spy reports.
Amaram nodded. So, Gavilar gave his speech about ancient oaths and Radiants—of glories past and futures bright. It was a good speech, but beginning to grate on him. Once his words had inspired troops; now he spent his entire life in meetings. After finishing, he let everyone get something to drink.
“Meridas,” Gavilar whispered, pulling Amaram aside. “These meetings are growing onerous. My experiment was a success. I have the weapon.”
Amaram started, then spoke softly. “You mean…”
“Yes, once we bring back the Voidbringers, we will have a new way to fight them.”
“Or a new way to control them,” Amaram whispered.
Well, that was new. Gavilar considered his friend, and the ambition those words implied. Good for you, Amaram.
“We must restore the Desolations,” Gavilar said. “Whatever the cost. It’s the only way.”
“I agree,” Amaram said. “Now more than ever.” He hesitated. “My efforts with your daughter did not go well earlier. I thought we had an understanding.”
“You simply need more time, my friend. To win her over.”
Amaram hungered for the throne like Gavilar hungered for immortality. And perhaps Gavilar would reward Amaram with it. Elhokar certainly did not deserve to be king. He was exactly the opposite of the legacy Gavilar wanted.
He sent Amaram to talk to the others. Once they had enjoyed their drinks, Gavilar would give another short speech. Then he could be on to… He frowned, noticing that one of the new recruits wasn’t conversing with the others. The elderly man, Taravangian, was staring at the map of Roshar. The others laughed at something Amaram said. Taravangian didn’t even look toward the sound.
Gavilar strode over, but before he could speak, Taravangian whispered, “Do you ever wonder about the lives we’re giving them? The people we rule?”
Gavilar was unaccustomed to people—let alone strangers—addressing him with such familiarity. But then, this Taravangian saw himself as a king, and perhaps as Gavilar’s equal. Laughable, when Taravangian ruled only one small city.
“I worry less about their lives now,” Gavilar said, “and more about what is to come.”
Taravangian nodded, appearing thoughtful. “That was an inspiring speech. Do you actually believe it?”
“Would I say it if I didn’t?”
“Of course you would; a king will say whatever needs to be said. Wouldn’t it be grand if that were always what he believed?” He looked to Gavilar, smiling. “Do you truly believe the Radiants can return?”
“Yes,” Gavilar said. “I do.”
“And you are not a fool,” Taravangian said, musing. “So you must have good reasons.”
Gavilar found himself revising his earlier opinion. A little king was still a king. Perhaps, among all of the dignitaries in the city tonight, here was one who might… in the smallest way… understand the demands placed on the man pressed between crown and throne.
“A danger is coming,” Gavilar said softly, shocked at his own sincerity. “To this land. This world. An ancient danger.”
Taravangian narrowed his eyes.
“It’s not just a Desolation we must fear,” Gavilar said. “They come. The Everstorm. The Night of Sorrows.”
Taravangian, remarkably, grew pale.
He believed. Gavilar usually felt foolish when he tried to explain the true dangers that the Stormfather had shown him—the contest of champions for the fate of Roshar. He worried people would think him mad. Yet this man… believed him?
“Where,” Taravangian asked, “did you hear those words?”
“I don’t know that you’d believe me if I told you.”
“Will you believe me?” Taravangian asked. “Ten years ago, my mother died of her tumors. Frail, lying on her bed, with too many perfumes struggling to smother the stench of death. She gazed at me in her last moments…” He met Gavilar’s eyes. “And she whispered: ‘I stand before him, above the world itself, and he speaks the truth. The Desolation is near… The Everstorm. The Night of Sorrows.’ Then she was gone.”
“I’ve… heard of this,” Gavilar admitted. “The prophetic words of the dying…”
“Where did you hear those words?” Taravangian asked, practically begging. “Please.”
“I see visions,” Gavilar said, frank. “Given me by the Almighty. So that we may prepare.” He looked toward the map. “Heralds send that I may become the person I need to be to stop what is coming…”
Let the Stormfather see sincerity in Gavilar. Storms… suddenly Gavilar felt it. Standing there with this little king, he felt it. Never before—in all of this—had Gavilar ever suspected he might be inadequate to the task.
Perhaps, he thought, I should encourage Dalinar to resume his training. Remind him that he is a soldier. Gavilar had the distinct impression that before too long, he would need the Blackthorn again.
Someone is approaching your door outside, the Stormfather warned. One of the listeners. Eshonai. There is something about this one…
One of the Parshendi? Gavilar shook himself. He dismissed Taravangian, Amaram, and the others—happy to be rid of that strange old man and his questioning eyes. The fellow was supposed to be unremarkable. Why did he unnerve Gavilar?
Eshonai entered as Amaram passed along his invitation. The conversation with the parshwoman went smoothly, with him manipulating her—and therefore her people. To prepare them for the role they would play.
* * *
After Gavilar grew weary at the feast once the treaty was signed, he retired to his rooms. He sank into a deep plush chair by his balcony, releasing a long sigh. Early in his career as a warlord, he’d never allowed himself the luxury of softness. He had mistakenly assumed that liking something soft would make him soft.
A common failing among men who wished to appear strong. It was not weakness to relax. By being so afraid of it, they gave simple things power over them.
The air shimmered in front of him.
“A full day,” Gavilar said.
Yes.
“The first of many such,” Gavilar continued. “I will be mounting an expedition back to the Shattered Plains soon. We can leverage my new treaty to obtain guides, have them lead us inward to the center. Toward Urithiru.”
The Stormfather did not reply. Gavilar wasn’t certain the spren could be said to have human mannerisms. Today though… that turned-away posture, hinted at in the warping of the air… that silence…
“Do you regret choosing me?” Gavilar asked.
I regret the way I have treated you, the Stormfather said. I should not have been so accommodating. It has made you lazy.
“This is lazy?” Gavilar said, forcing amusement into his voice to hide his annoyance.
You do not reverence the position you seek, the Stormfather said. I feel… you are not the champion I need. Maybe… I’ve been wrong all this time.
“You said that you were charged with this task of finding a champion,” Gavilar said. “By Honor.”
That is true. I do not speak in human ways. But still, if you become a Herald, you will be tortured between Returns. Why is it this doesn’t bother you?
Gavilar shrugged. “I will just give in.”
What?
“Give in,” Gavilar said, heaving himself out of his seat. “Why stay to be tortured and potentially lose my mind? I will give up each time and return immediately.”
The Heralds stay in Damnation to seal the Voidbringers away. To prevent them from overrunning the world. They—
“The Heralds are the ten fools for that,” Gavilar explained, pouring a drink from the carafe near his balcony. “If I cannot die, I will be the greatest king this world has ever known. Why lock away my knowledge and leadership?”
To stop the war.
“Why would I care to stop a war?” Gavilar asked, genuinely amused. “War is the path to glory, to training our soldiers to recover the Tranquiline Halls. My troops should be experienced, don’t you think?” He turned back toward the shimmer, taking a sip of orange wine. “I don’t fear these Voidbringers. Let them stay and fight. If they are reborn, then we will never run out of enemies to kill.”
The Stormfather did not respond. And again Gavilar tried to read into the thing’s posture. Was the Stormfather proud of him? Gavilar considered this an elegant solution; he was puzzled why the Heralds had never thought of it. Perhaps they were cowards.
Ah, Gavilar, the Stormfather said. I see my miscalculation. Your entire religious upbringing… created from the lies of Aharietiam and Honor’s own failings… it pointed you toward this conclusion.
Damnation. The Stormfather wasn’t pleased. It suddenly felt terribly unfair. Here he was drinking this awful excuse for wine to follow the ridiculous Codes—he gave every possible outward show of piety—yet it wasn’t enough?
“What should I do to serve?” Gavilar said.
You don’t understand, the Stormfather said. Those aren’t the Words, Gavilar.
“Then what are the storming Words!” he said, slamming the cup down on the table—shattering it, splashing wine across the wall. “You want me to save this planet? Then help me! Tell me what I’m saying wrong!”
It’s not about what you are saying.
“But—”
Suddenly the Stormfather wavered. Lightning pulsed through his shimmering form, filling Gavilar’s room with an electric glow. Blue frosted the rugs, pure light reflecting in the glass balcony doors.
Then the Stormfather cried out. A sound like a peal of thunder, agonized.
“What?” Gavilar said, backing up. “What happened?”
A Herald… a Herald has died… No. I am not ready… The Oathpact… No! They mustn’t see. They mustn’t know…
“Died?” Gavilar said. “Died. You said they were already dead! You said they were in Damnation!”
The Stormfather rippled, then a face emerged in the shimmering. Two eyes, like holes in a storm, clouds spiraling around them and leading into the depths.
“You lied,” Gavilar said. “You lied?”
Oh, Gavilar. There is so much you do not know. So much you assume. And the two never do meet. Like paths to opposing cities.
Those eyes seemed to pull Gavilar forward, to overwhelm him, to consume him. He… he saw storms, endless storms, and the world was so frail. A tiny speck of blue against an infinite canvas of black.
The Stormfather could lie?
“Restares,” Gavilar whispered. “Is he… actually a Herald?”
Yes.
Gavilar felt cold, as if he were standing in the highstorm, ice seeping in through his skin. Seeking his heart. Those eyes…
“What are you?” Gavilar whispered, hoarse.
The biggest fool of them all, the Stormfather said. Goodbye, Gavilar. I have seen a glimpse of what is coming. I will not prevent it.
“What?” Gavilar demanded. “What is coming?”
Your legacy.
The door slammed open. Sadeas, his face red from exertion. “Assassin,” he said, waving Tearim—in Plate—to tromp in. “Coming this way, killing guards. We need you to put on your armor. Tearim, get it off. We must protect the king.”
Gavilar looked at him, stunned.
Then one word cut through.
Assassin.
I’ve been betrayed, he thought, and found that he was not surprised. One of them had been bound to come for him.
But which one?
“Gavilar!” Sadeas shouted. “We need you in armor! Assassin on the way.”
“Tearim can fight him, Torol,” Gavilar said. “What is one assassin?”
“This one has killed dozens already,” Sadeas said. “I think we should have you in Plate just in case. You could wear mine, but my armorers are still bringing it.”
“You brought your armor to the feast?”
“Of course I did,” Sadeas said. “I don’t trust those Parshendi. You’d do well to emulate me. Trusting too much could get you killed someday.”
Screams sounded in the distance. Tearim, loyal as always, began removing the Plate for Gavilar to don.
“Too slow,” Sadeas said. “We need to buy time. Give me your robe.”
Gavilar hesitated, then met his friend’s eyes. “You’d do that?”
“I worked too hard to put you on that throne, Gavilar,” Sadeas said, grim. “I’m not going to let that go to waste.”
“Thank you,” Gavilar said.
Sadeas shrugged, pulling on the robe as Tearim helped Gavilar suit up. Whoever this assassin was, he’d find himself outmatched by a Shardbearer.
Gavilar glanced toward where the Stormfather had been—but the shimmer was gone.
Spren couldn’t lie. They couldn’t. He’d learned that… from the Stormfather.
Blood of my fathers, Gavilar thought as the Plate locked onto his legs. What else did it lie to me about?
* * *
Gavilar fell.
And he knew, as he fell, that this was it. His ending.
A legacy interrupted. An assassin who moved with an otherworldly grace, stepping on wall and ceiling, commanding Light that bled from the very storms.
Gavilar hit the ground—surrounded by the wreckage of his balcony—and he saw white in a flash. His body didn’t hurt. That was an extremely bad sign.
Thaidakar, he thought as a figure rose before him, shadowed in the night air. Only Thaidakar could send an assassin who could do such things.
Gavilar coughed as the figure loomed over him. “I… expected you… to come.”
The assassin knelt before him, though Gavilar couldn’t see anything more than shadows. Then… the assassin—doing something Gavilar couldn’t make out—again glowed like a sphere.
“You can tell… Thaidakar,” Gavilar whispered, “that he’s too late…”
“I don’t know who that is,” the assassin said, the words barely intelligible. The man held his hand to the side. Summoning a Blade.
This was it. Behind the assassin a halo, a corona of shimmering light. The Stormfather.
I did not cause this, the Stormfather said in his head. I do not know whether that brings you peace in your last moments, Gavilar.
But…
“Then who…?” Gavilar forced out. “Restares? Sadeas? I never thought…”
“My masters are the Parshendi,” the assassin said.
Gavilar blinked, focusing on the man once more as his Blade formed. Storms… that was Jezrien’s Honorblade, wasn’t it? What was happening?
“The Parshendi? That makes no sense.”
This is my failure as much as yours, the Stormfather said. If I try again, I will do it differently. I thought… your family…
His family. In that moment, Gavilar saw his legacy crumbling. He was dying.
Storms. He was dying. What did anything matter? He couldn’t. He couldn’t…
He was supposed to be eternal…
I’ve invited the enemy back, he realized. The end is coming. And my family, my kingdom, will be destroyed, without a way to fight. Unless…
Hand quivering, he pulled a sphere out of his pocket. The weapon. They needed this. His son… No, his son could not handle such power… They needed a warrior. A true warrior. One that Gavilar had been doing his best to suppress, out of a fear he barely dared acknowledge, even as he drew his last ragged breaths.
Dalinar. Storms help them, it came down to Dalinar.
He held the sphere out toward the Stormfather, his vision fuzzing. Thinking… was… difficult.
“You must take this,” Gavilar whispered to the Stormfather. “They must not get it. Tell… tell my brother… he must find the most important words a man can say…”
No, the Stormfather said, though a hand took the sphere. Not him. I’m sorry, Gavilar. I made that mistake once. I will never trust your family again.
Gavilar gave a whine of pain, not from his body but from his soul. He had failed. He had brought them all to ruin. That, he realized with horror, would be his legacy.
In the end, Gavilar Kholin, heir to the Heralds, died. As all men, ultimately, must.
Alone.
Excerpted from Wind and Truth, copyright © 2024 Dragonsteel Entertainment.
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