Wind and Truth (The Stormlight Archive #5)

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 Light …” 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.”