Read Wind and Truth by Brandon Sanderson: Chapters 25 and 26

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 25: Purposeful Danger

Walking into that safehouse was like stepping into a memory: that of Shallan’s first meeting with Mraize. There, she’d entered the basement of a building that shouldn’t have had one. Here—after following Shade through the entryway—she headed down another set of stairs cut into the stone.

They were smooth and well-shaped, dark with lichen, with some crem buildup at the corners of the steps—indicating that water had occasionally seeped in during the many years this place was unoccupied. Using a diamond for light, Shade took them down, and Shallan wondered at the ancients who had crafted it. Why would you build downward, risking flooding?

The air was damp in here, though the stones weren’t wet, and she soon smelled incense. At the bottom of the stairs Shallan found the Alethi woman who had been sent to spy on Dalinar. The actor, an acolyte Ghostblood who had probably been teased with membership like Shallan.

The woman was studying Mraize’s trophies. Housed in a small room full of glass-fronted cases, each unlabeled artifact had its own shelf lit by a handful of chips. A silvery horn or claw from some great beast. A chunk of light red crystal, like pink salt—though of a deeper, more vibrant color. A violet stone egg, partly crystalline, with silver swirling around its shell. A fat, succulent leaf that pulsed red and seemed to radiate heat. A vial of pale sand she now recognized as having a very practical application.

Secrets, each stoking her hunger. She’d been strung along with the promise of a feast of answers, ideas, even dreams. Worlds full of people for her sketch collection. Shade let the newcomers linger to look at the trophies, but Shallan feigned indifference, leaning against the wall and glancing through the eyeholes in the mask toward the glass case beside her.

There, in the reflection on the glass, she glimpsed a shadowy figure with white holes for eyes. Sja-anat, one of the Unmade, was here. She studied Shallan in turn, existing in this realm only as a reflection, then smiled in a knowing way and vanished.

Storms. Did she know who Shallan really was? There wasn’t time to wonder, as Shade waved the two newly arrived Ghostbloods into the next room. Shallan risked following—though Shade remained behind with the actor—and closed the door after them.

The room beyond turned out to be large, bigger than the building above, though the ceiling was relatively low. It was entirely stone, with little furniture, and her door was in the northeast corner. The southern wall—to Shallan’s left, maybe forty feet away—was stacked with bales of hay, targets on each one. Maybe twenty feet ahead of her, seven people clustered around a lone podium. They chatted softly, and Shallan’s breath caught as she saw Mraize with the group, fiddling with some contraption.

His very silhouette still intimidated her. He had a lean strength that never quite matched his fine clothing—which today was a coat, shirt, and trousers, with a ruffled portion of his shirt bursting out below the neck. Bright red, like blood from a slit throat.

Remember your breathing, Veil whispered. Keep it up, kid.

Shallan nodded absently and did her breathing exercises, calming her emotions. Half of the act of an imitation like this was about emotions, and not drawing the wrong spren. She could do this. No need for anxiety.

Mraize barely glanced over as the two newcomers joined six others. Shallan hung back, breathing calmingly and scanning the room, the mask sitting strangely on her face and blocking some of her field of vision. Where was Iyatil?

There. She saw the woman watching the group from beside the north wall, giving her a full view of the room. Short and masked, Iyatil crouched on the stone ground. Others, particularly those from Alethi culture, might have mistaken her for a guard, but she was the master, and Mraize her second.

Storms. Where Mraize was an overt, blatant kind of dangerous—always holding some sort of weapon, talking about hunting and death—Iyatil was the quiet kind. The kind that watched from the shadows, ruminating on the sounds you’d make when stabbed.

Shallan stepped forward, because standing in the doorway would draw attention. She forced herself to adopt the proper gait, and found her counterpart—the third masked offworlder—watching from all the way across the room by the west wall. He prowled forward, passing a stand of burning incense, and approached the two newcomers where—Shallan could barely hear—he offered them a drink.

The guard slunk to a bar set up against the east wall near Shallan and started mixing the drinks. This was a trained assassin—and Mraize was having him… mix drinks? Was this a way of intimidating the others?

No. No, the Ghostbloods were relaxed. They just needed drinks, and the assassin was the one available to get them.

“Ah,” Mraize said as the large contraption in his hands clicked. “There.” He hefted it and placed a small, heavy arrow into it. The device was a kind of crossbow, though larger and bulkier than the ones Shallan had seen.

Intrigued, Shallan stepped closer. Then she checked Iyatil and the other masked offworlder. They were watching not the device but the people. Right; Shallan tried to do the same, moving along the north wall, behind the group of people, who faced the targets.

“Mraize!” said Aika, the Thaylen trader in a skirt and vest. “You said this meeting was urgent; why are you playing with a new toy while we have drinks?”

“Had to wait for stragglers, Stolen Purse,” he said, with a smile. “And a good drink, well studied, is an excellent start to any difficult conversation.”

“Feels strange,” said the other Thaylen, “to have so many of us together. How long has it been?”

“Since the briefing on the Everstorm,” said the man wearing the patterned regalia of an Azish vizier. “The year before it arrived. Honestly, I’ve missed you all. Mraize, we have Oathgates now. We should meet more often.”

“Meeting is dangerous,” Mraize noted, raising the crossbow to sight at one of the targets.

“Mraize, love,” said a woman, Veden like Shallan by her accent, “you enjoy danger, don’t you?” Shallan took a Memory of her; aside from the vizier she was the only one of the group not in Hoid’s stack of drawings.

“I enjoy purposeful danger, Icy Tongue,” Mraize said—Shallan knew he had a nickname for everyone. Not a code name, just a quirk of his. “Danger with value and lessons. Foolhardy danger, without purpose, is a waste. A whorehouse for the emotions.”

He triggered the crossbow, which shot the larger-than-average bolt into one of the hay bales.

“You missed the center, Mraize,” one of the others said.

“Hence the practice,” Mraize said, reloading the device.

As the assassin delivered drinks, Shallan worried what she was expected to do. Hopefully not fetch drinks. If she had to ask someone their preference, she didn’t like her chances of imitating Iyatil’s accent, which she’d heard only a few times.

Best for her to avoid saying anything. She prowled along the wall, smoke from one incense burner wafting in her wake.

Iyatil glanced at her.

Panic erupted in Shallan’s chest, like daggers suddenly slid between her ribs.

Calm, Veil reminded.

She did her best, maintaining her poise, and picked a spot, then squatted, mimicking Iyatil’s posture. Moving had drawn attention, so she determined to stay still. Blessedly, that seemed the right move. Iyatil’s attention immediately returned to the group, and the other assassin settled back against the west wall and watched with folded arms.

“Is this device the reason we’re all here, risking discovery, Mraize?” Icy Tongue asked, sipping her drink.

“No,” he said, raising the weapon once more. “This is merely a diversion.” He released and hit the target, though not at the center. “Any of you ever used one of these?”

“Crossbow,” the Azish man said. “Common guardsman weapon.”

“No,” Icy Tongue said. “That’s a Thaylen hand ballista. Heavier than a normal crossbow, intended to deliver a payload.”

“Exactly,” Mraize said, nodding to her. “They were developed to carry oil or a flaming brand to set fire to enemy sails. Never been terribly effective, unfortunately, but they’re enjoyed by some enthusiasts. My father had a few when I was young.” He held up the device, studying it. “A modern weapon, relying on mechanical strength rather than strength of arm.”

“It’s obviously difficult to aim,” one of the others said. “I have trouble seeing why you’re so interested in it.”

Mraize casually loaded another bolt. Shallan studied him from where she crouched. His actions always had a purpose. What was the lesson here?

Storms, even when he wasn’t watching her, she felt intimidated by him. Worse, she felt an icy chill at the nape of her neck and—despite trying not to—glanced at Iyatil. Who had been looking in her direction.

Shallan glanced away immediately, breathing as calmly as she could. An anxietyspren appeared anyway, a twisting black cross. Did Iyatil suspect? The spren wasn’t an immediate tell, as one could come because you were worried about basically anything, but…

Storms. Storms, storms, storms. These were experts in the very arts that Shallan, as Veil, had pretended to know. Sweat ran down her face, and the mask suddenly felt heavy and suffocating. Her breath kept getting caught, the heat of it puffing around her cheeks and leaving her skin damp. She wanted to rip the mask free.

Did you notice, Veil said, that he left his trouser leg tucked into his sock?

Shallan glanced again at Mraize, and it was true. In dressing, he’d let his right sock catch the back of his trouser leg. In the face of her panic, it was an almost comical detail.

Veil chuckled. He’s just a person, Shallan. They all are. How does Mraize try to control you?

“Through intimidation,” she whispered. “Intimidation, secrets, and an air of mystery.”

And if you refuse to give him any of those benefits?

Then…

Just a person. Iyatil too. People, and highly confident ones, who could make mistakes. They wouldn’t expect Shallan to be here—would never assume her capable of taking the face of one of their best.

Even the most skilled swordswoman, Radiant said, can lose a duel. They might be good, but if they suspected you, they’d have done something by now. You’re doing it.

You’re doing it, Veil said. I mean, look how silly he is.

He really wasn’t—it was a small mistake, one people commonly made. And she was in over her head, she knew. But this had to be done, and that little mistake Mraize had made, it was a sign that he was flawed.

Shallan chuckled softly, and the anxietyspren vanished away.

“Did you know,” Mraize said to the others, “that on some worlds the crossbow became the default weapon for an entire era of warfare? While the weapon is generally slower to reload, it requires less training to use than a bow. With the right design it can pierce steel, so instead of the archer who practices all their life, or the regal lighteyes in plate armor, such battlefields are ruled by the farmers with two months’ training and a technological advantage.”

“Until a Shardbearer marches through their ranks and lays waste to the whole lot,” said the man in the Alethi uniform. “You know Aladar tried crossbowman ranks once? Sure, they’re powerful—but slow. Best used with a full pike block for support. And if there’s one man in Plate on the other side, those crossbowmen draw him like rain draws vines.”

“Interesting words, Chain,” Mraize said, sighting with his hand ballista and loosing again. “Words spoken with the wisdom of the past—excellent at teaching us to deal with the world as it has existed. And only as it has existed.”

He looked to Iyatil, who gestured for him to continue. He set the ballista down and opened the front of the podium. A glowing sphere spren floated out—much like the seon that Shallan had discovered in her communication box.

It changed shape, becoming an older man’s face, with mustaches. Wait… did she recognize him?

“Tell them,” Mraize commanded.

“We’ve found Restares,” said the floating, glowing head. “He told us, and Shallan, the details. Mishram’s prison is hidden in the Spiritual Realm.”

Storms. That was Felt. One of Adolin’s soldiers.

Coldness enveloped Shallan, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of disconnect. Felt was a spy.

Felt was a Ghostblood.

It was good no one was currently looking at her, because she couldn’t keep the small shockspren away. All that time she’d spent trying to find the spy—an entire trip through Shadesmar—only to decide she was herself the spy. While Mraize had sent a backup. Of course he had. Storms… she felt suddenly violated, knowing Felt had been watching all along.

“That’s the important bit,” Felt continued. “Ala has been chatting with Restares, who has all kinds of things to say once you press him. Ala’s pretty fed up with him, since little of it seems relevant, but I’m taking notes anyway.”

Ala? The seon?

Wait…

“Thank you,” Mraize said. “Ala and you have done well. You will be compensated.”

Ala was a Ghostblood too? It certainly sounded that way. On one hand, Shallan’s sense of betrayal deepened—but on the other, she was relieved. The spren had put up quite an act of being a frightened prisoner, but if that wasn’t the case, then maybe Shallan didn’t have to feel so bad for her.

“I don’t want your rusting coin, Mraize,” Felt said. “I never wanted any part of any of this. Though Ala specifically asked me to tell you she wants a pony. I… I think she might be joking?”

Mraize smiled. “Keep the Herald captive. Further instructions will come.” He made a gesture, and the face faded back to a glowing sphere, which hid in the podium again.

“The prison is in the Spiritual Realm?” one of the group said. “So it’s impossible to reach.”

“Hardly,” Mraize said. “Iyatil and I received intel from a very special contact yesterday, indicating that if we watched Dalinar we would have a chance to enter the Spiritual Realm. We thought we might need our newest recruit to nudge him into it, but that wasn’t necessary. Dalinar met with Cultivation herself, who urged him to seek Honor’s power. He will be stepping into the Spiritual Realm soon, and Iyatil and I will follow. Until we return, Zora, this cell is yours. You will take the seon and report directly to Master Thaidakar.”

The Azish vizier nodded.

The Thaylen woman he’d called Stolen Purse folded her arms. “You’ve never specifically left someone else in charge before.”

“This is true,” Mraize said, calmly reloading his hand ballista.

“So… you think this is dangerous?” the woman continued.

“I know it is,” Mraize said. “We might not return. Or if we do, hundreds of years could have passed here. But we will find Mishram’s prison.”

“Wait,” said Icy Tongue. “Mraize, how does this help Master Thaidakar’s plans?”

Mraize didn’t reply, instead sighting his target and loosing. He finally hit the red center circle.

“We should be working on our plan,” Icy Tongue said, “to transport Stormlight offworld, now that we know it can be blanked of Identity and transferred between realms. How does chasing down some ancient spren further Master Thaidakar’s orders to provide him a renewable source of Investiture?”

Shallan leaned forward. She’d already known that the Ghostbloods wanted the power of the Radiants and the versatility of Stormlight. That explained a great deal—such as, for example, recruiting Shallan. But there was more. Why was he so interested in Mishram? She reached into her sleeve, fingering the spanreed she’d hidden in there, strapped to her arm. She sent three quick flashes—a warning to the others to be ready, but not to come quite yet. She was close.

Mraize didn’t answer. He readied his weapon for another shot—though he selected a bolt with a gemstone affixed to it, near the head. What had they said? That these hand ballistas were designed to deliver a larger-than-normal payload?

Oh, storms. A gemstone by itself was meaningless. But if he managed to get hold of the anti-Stormlight that Navani had developed in Shallan’s absence…

He launched the bolt, and hit the target straight on.

The wisdom of the past is excellent at teaching us to deal with the world as it has existed. And only as it has existed.

Mraize wasn’t showing affection for an old, obsolete piece of technology. He was practicing with a weapon that, suddenly, could be used to kill Radiants—and their spren.

“Once in the Spiritual Realm,” Mraize said, “Iyatil and I will watch Dalinar. If we stay close to him, most likely he will lead us to the prison.”

“How can you know that?” Icy Tongue asked.

“Because I do,” he said. “Master Thaidakar has approved this course—and you eight will lead in our absence. That is all you need know.”

“Pardon,” said Icy Tongue, “but we’re Ghostbloods. No secrets, Mraize. Those are the rules.”

“Master Thaidakar’s actions,” Mraize said, “prove he does not believe in this rule. Sometimes information is dangerous, and must be kept sheathed like a fine blade.”

Shallan leaned forward farther, but then caught something from the corner of her eye. Iyatil was in motion. The short woman crossed the room and stooped beside Shallan, where she whispered something.

In a language that Shallan did not recognize.

* * *

Dalinar sat with Navani in the garden chamber, both of them in chairs at the center, facing one another. He held her hands, vines moving around them without wind or touch. Navani said they were dancing to rhythms Dalinar couldn’t hear.

“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, Dalinar,” she said, squeezing his hands. “What happens if this works? Will I lose you?”

“If I were to Ascend to Honor,” Dalinar said, “I don’t think you’d lose me. Cultivation spoke to me earlier, and according to Ash, Honor often interacted with the Heralds.”

“I don’t mean losing your presence,” she said. “I mean losing you—your love, your humanity. I don’t want to be selfish, and we will do what the world needs. But I have to ask. What will it mean, Dalinar? And does it have to be you?”

He didn’t know the answer to either question. They both leaned forward, him resting his forehead on hers. Contemplating. Deciding. Fearspren wiggled out of the stones around his feet.

“All this time,” he whispered, “I’ve been trying to become a better person, Navani. Through the course of it, I’ve discovered terrifying truths, and I’ve shared them with the world. That our god died millennia ago, that humankind stole this world from those who owned it. Answers that once were easy now prove difficult.

“I am scared of this step, but I want to provide answers again regardless. I feel that something has been guiding me all this time. Something I can’t explain, something beyond Honor. I know someone has to step up and do this. The contest isn’t enough. There’s more, and I think I’m the only one who can find out what it is. I spent a great deal of time searching for how to become a stronger Bondsmith, and I think that was a step toward a greater truth of what I actually need to become.”

She gripped his hands, and he loved her for the way she gave his words some thought, and didn’t contradict him immediately. But also for the way she didn’t immediately agree.

Wit finally returned, slipping in. Dalinar and Navani pulled back from each other, and he could see the concern in her eyes.

“Love,” he said, “we don’t know if this will work. We don’t have to make all the decisions now.”

“Sometimes,” she said, “it’s good to ask the questions long before you need the answers. I can’t help thinking that we’re dabbling in things well beyond our capacity, Dalinar. The powers of gods? Several of my scholars inadvertently detonated themselves just last month, working on anti-Light. Now you’re contemplating going somewhere that frightens even Wit.”

“To be fair,” Wit said, leaning against the wall near the door, “a great number of things terrify me. I mean, have you considered—really considered—how insane it is that society entrusts you mortals with children? After… what, two decades of life, half of it spent in diapers?”

“Wit,” Navani said, “people don’t spend ten years in diapers.”

“See?” Wit said. “I’m roughly ten thousand years old, and I barely feel comfortable with my knowledge of how to care for an infant. It’s a wonder any of you make it to adolescence…”

“Focus, Wit,” Dalinar said. “The plan. The Spiritual Realm.”

“We’re out of our depth,” Navani said. “Like an army struggling against an enemy with far more modern equipment.”

“Or a scholar trying to read complex ideas in a language she has barely studied,” Dalinar added. “But we have only eight days before I need to face Odium, and I’m certain the Stormfather is hiding things from me.”

“The Sibling agrees,” Navani said. “They keep pointing out the Stormfather’s inaccuracies and our incorrect understanding of historical events.”

“The goal,” Wit said, “is for you to relive those events. So you can find out the truth of Honor’s death, and uncover secrets even I don’t know.” He frowned. “I don’t know why the Stormfather would lie though.”

“I don’t think… he ever expected anyone to be able to contradict him,” Dalinar said. “He never thought the Sibling would reawaken.” He met Navani’s eyes. “So long as the Heralds are mad and Wit is useless—”

“Hey!”

“—the Stormfather could provide the sole narrative. We have to find the truth, Navani. We have to know what happened to Honor.”

“Which brings us back to the central question,” Navani said softly. “What does it mean to replace him?”

“Dalinar would Ascend,” Wit said. “His mind would expand to see with the eyes of deity. The Shards are not omniscient—it is relatively easy to hide things from them. But they are… blessed with a near-infinite capacity to understand. To see into the future, in its many permutations, and to comprehend what that means.”

“It sounds like,” Navani said, “you’d no longer be human.”

“It sounds like,” Dalinar said, “a version of what has already happened to you, with your bond to the tower. We’re working through that. We could work through this.”

She nodded hesitantly. “But I ask again: Do you have to do it, Dalinar? Why must it always be you?”

From Jasnah or Adolin, perhaps those words would have been a challenge. A question why he always put himself in the center of the issue. He found such questions ridiculous—who else could he trust with a problem of such magnitude? Someone needed to walk the difficult roads, and—as ruler—it was his duty. That was what The Way of Kings taught.

From Navani, it wasn’t a challenge but a plea. If someone was called to sacrifice, couldn’t he pass the burden just this once?

“I can’t trust this to anyone else,” Dalinar said. “You learn, as a general, when to send your best lieutenant—and when to go yourself.” He squeezed her hands. “Navani, if I lose the contest of champions… we lose me. I will be Odium’s, and he will bring out the Blackthorn. Whatever we can do to prevent that, I want to try, even if it means this Ascension, as Wit calls it. If, after the contest, the power is changing me too much, I will find another and give it to them.”

“Is that allowed?” she asked, glancing to Wit.

“Technically, yes,” he said. “But it is extremely difficult to do. Once you are a god, Dalinar, it is nearly impossible to let go.”

“Surely it has been done,” Dalinar said.

Wit grew distant, a faint smile on his lips. “Once. It wasn’t a full Ascension, but a mortal did give up the power once. It proved to be the wrong choice, but it was the most selfless thing I believe I’ve ever witnessed. So yes, Dalinar, it is possible. But not easy.”

“Nothing ever is,” he said. “Not for us.”

Navani looked back at him, then nodded. “Very well. Let’s do it then. Together.”

“… Together?”

“I’m not going to let you go into the realm of the gods alone,” she said. “You’ll need a scholar to help interpret what you see in the past.”

Damnation. She was right. They had gone into visions together before; it was possible. But if it was going to be as dangerous as Wit implied…

No. From her expression, he knew that if he suggested taking another scholar instead of her, he would bring down a wrath to make the Stormfather look like a spring squall. And justly so. For all the same arguments he’d made to himself about doing this personally, he needed the best at his side. That was Navani.

“You are wise,” he said. “I hate it, but you are right. We’ll try this together. But we’ll need to prepare the others to lead Urithiru while we are gone. Wit thinks it will take us days to accomplish this.”

“I can keep an eye on things here,” Wit said. “First, we’ll have you peek into the Spiritual Realm and see if this even works. If you leave your bodies behind, as I’m hoping, I should be able to bring you back out if you’re needed.”

“Excellent,” Navani said. “How do we proceed?”

“Well,” Wit said, “you once had to use a highstorm and the Stormfather’s powers—but you’re Bondsmiths now. You can open a perpendicularity and push into the Spiritual Realm. Once there, I suggest using Connection to guide you into a specific slice of the past. I’ll help you with that. You can peek into an event I’ve witnessed, experience it, and return so we can compare notes. If that works, we can send you on a longer journey, into times I wasn’t here to witness.”

Dalinar and Navani met each other’s eyes and nodded.

“Great,” Wit said. “Let’s head down the elevator and find a good location to try the experiment.”

“Why not here?” Dalinar asked.

“You are about to pierce through the three realms and try to throw yourselves into the Spiritual Realm,” Wit said. “If you get it wrong, you’ll end up in Shadesmar—but with the force you’re using, you could as easily cast yourselves beyond the tower. Personally, I’d feel more comfortable if we were somewhere lower, so you had less distance to fall if things go awry.”

“Very well,” Dalinar said, standing. “Let’s tell Aladar and Sebarial what we’re planning, just in case, then find somewhere lower down for the experiment.”

Chapter 26: Hunting the Hunter

Shallan stared at Iyatil. The woman’s eyes seemed distant behind that mask, and strangely human—as if the mask were some beast that had swallowed a person.

Iyatil repeated her comment in, presumably, their native tongue. In a panic, Shallan reached for the spanreed in her sleeve, ready to call the others. Only… she hadn’t actually learned anything yet. How were the Ghostbloods going to sneak through to the Spiritual Realm with Dalinar? Why were they so interested in one of the Unmade? They’d already made contact with Sja-anat. Wasn’t that enough?

There was no helping it. If Iyatil hadn’t been suspicious before, she would be when she got no reply. Shallan gripped the spanreed.

But Veil whispered: You can do this, Shallan. Try.

Shallan couldn’t understand what Iyatil had said, but what was her body language saying? Iyatil nodded to the side, toward the third masked offworlder. Her words had been short and terse, maybe a question, more likely an order. So, risking it, Shallan gave a curt nod.

That worked, and Iyatil scurried back toward the doorway in the eastern wall, Shallan following. The third assassin met them, and they huddled together, with Iyatil speaking quickly in their own language. In the center of the room, Mraize hinted to the others what Shallan had guessed: that with some minor tweaks, the hand ballista would be very useful in coming years.

Shallan couldn’t pay attention to him, for she had now gotten herself into a conversation with not merely one person speaking another tongue, but two. They’d expect a response other than a nod. She had to escape the conversation without making a scene.

Find an excuse, Veil whispered, for not paying attention.

Yes… distractibility was a universal human foible. Unfortunately there wasn’t much in the room. Just the targets, Mraize and his crew, four bleak stone walls…

Wait. The doorknob. Silvery, polished, reflective. Being crouched down together as they were put it near eye level. Shallan fixated on it, waiting until the others noticed her distraction.

“Aleen?” Iyatil said to Shallan. “Aleen, vat ist erest missen?”

Shallan pointed at the doorknob and spoke, whispering a word that would be the same regardless of language. “Sja-anat.” The whisper hopefully masked her voice.

Iyatil hissed softly, pushing Shallan aside to look closely at the doorknob. When she saw nothing, she grunted, and—ignoring their conversation—stalked toward Mraize. The other foreigner glanced at Shallan, so she shrugged, then leaned in to study the doorknob. He moved off after Iyatil.

Shallan calmed her nerves, avoiding drawing a spren this time. Iyatil had taken the bait, and hadn’t seemed to find anything too irregular about Shallan. Unless she was telling Mraize she was an impostor right now. Maybe it was time to call the others. Shallan reached again for her spanreed, but a moment later a shadow moved across the doorknob, and then Sja-anat appeared as she had earlier: a jet-black female figure with white holes for eyes.

I wondered, she said in Shallan’s mind, how you would manage without speaking her tongue, Shallan. That was clever.

“So you do know it’s me,” Shallan whispered.

It is difficult for mortals to distinguish one soul’s flame from another, but I am not mortal.

“Are you going to reveal me?”

As you just revealed me? Perhaps.

“Whose side are you on, Sja-anat?” Shallan whispered. “Truly. What is your game?”

Game, Shallan? I fight for survival. Odium will rip through anyone, anything, to get what he wishes. Thousands of years have proven he cares nothing for me or my children. Honor is a coward who always hated us. Destroyed us. Betrayed us. And all Cultivation does is watch.

I am on the side of preserving a world for my children. You should not fear “my side,” Shallan. You should embrace it. If there is room for my children, there will be room for yours.

Iyatil returned, Mraize tailing her. Again Shallan gripped the spanreed but held her nerve. Sja-anat did not hide, but persisted—small, but distinguishable, as a reflection in the doorknob, looking up at Iyatil.

“Lieke, stay here,” Iyatil said in Alethi. “Entertain the others.” She opened the door, grabbing the doorknob despite the reflection there. Mraize followed, as did Shallan, assuming that Lieke was the other masked figure.

Shade and the actor were gone from this little alcove. It was darker in here, where the sole light was provided by chips—painted on one side, to shine only on Mraize’s treasures.

“There,” Iyatil said. “My trophy case. I see her reflection.”

Wait… her trophy case? It wasn’t Mraize’s?

Iyatil pulled a mirror out on wheels from behind one of the cabinets. Shallan closed the door to the other room softly, then stayed back, trying not to draw attention.

Sja-anat appeared in the mirror, all slender smoke and magnetic eyes.

“Why are you here?” Iyatil demanded. “You’re supposed to be watching the Bondsmiths. Have they begun the process?”

“My children watch,” Sja-anat said, her voice tinny and small, as if she were communicating down the length of a long hallway. “The Sibling is awake. They are not easy to fool, even for me. I myself would draw attention.”

“This isn’t what you told us,” Iyatil said. “The timing will be tight. We need to get into Shadesmar and be ready to enter Dalinar’s perpendicularity as soon as it opens.”

“You will not miss your opportunity,” Sja-anat said. “Though I question your eagerness to be lost in that place.”

“You said our spren could guide us,” Mraize said, stepping closer to the mirror. “You said they understood that realm.”

Our spren?

Our spren?

Shallan backed up a pace, pressing against the cold stone wall. Mraize and Iyatil had spren? They were Radiant?

That’s why they were so eager to meet Sja-anat! Veil said. Sja-anat’s requirements for those who bonded her children were different from those of ordinary Radiants.

Storms. Shallan had been key to facilitating Sja-anat meeting with the Ghostbloods. She’d known all along that her flirtatious half-commitment to the Ghostbloods was dangerous. Here was proof. Why had she let it go on for so long?

You were confused, Radiant said, far from home, and you thought Jasnah was dead. You needed to feel a part of something. Do not be too hard on yourself.

Shallan had made many mistakes, yes, but she hoped she was learning from them. Today she stepped forward, closer to Iyatil and Mraize, hoping to catch signs of their spren—to tell what orders they had joined. Or… if they had bonded Sja-anat’s children, were they actually Radiants? Renarin was, but he’d chosen to take the title for himself.

In her shock, she’d missed some of what Sja-anat was saying. Assurances that her children could offer guidance in the Spiritual Realm. “There is only so much that can be done for mortals,” the Unmade continued. “Like a fish suddenly on the land, you will be in a place that is hostile to your existence. My children will guide you, but you still may not return.”

“We will go regardless,” Mraize said softly.

“And I am glad,” Sja-anat said. “One last warning, however. I do not think you will find an ally in my sister. Mishram is not… fond of humans.”

“We are not seeking an ally,” Iyatil said. “Tell us when Dalinar starts getting ready, so we may prepare.”

“As you wish,” Sja-anat said. “My children say he is talking to his advisors. He is close though.”

“What of Shallan?” Mraize asked. “Does she hunt us?”

“She does,” Sja-anat said. And did not look toward Shallan standing behind them.

Shallan didn’t spot a spren on Mraize’s clothing or shoulder, but she did note the quiver of crossbow bolts at his side. Specifically, one had a gemstone affixed with white-blue light that warped the air around it. Shallan hadn’t seen the anti-Light, but Wit had told her about it, and she recognized it from the description.

Mraize, as ever, had worked quickly and efficiently. So far as Shallan knew, there was barely a tiny bit of the stuff in Urithiru, carefully locked away. Yet Mraize had already stolen some. She couldn’t help but be impressed.

“I’m worried Shallan will interfere,” he said.

“The girl is distracted,” Iyatil said. “You fixate upon her too much, acolyte. We made the proper threats; her attention will be on protecting and watching her loved ones.”

“Yes, Babsk,” Mraize said.

They’re human, Veil whispered. Fallible. Remember that.

Iyatil waved Mraize off, and he bowed to her. It felt strange to see him defer; he had always seemed so in command. Though there was a level of self-control to his obedience. Mraize did not complain or seem upset to be dismissed. He walked with his head held high, opening the door to reveal the Ghostbloods practicing with his oversized crossbow.

Sja-anat vanished, and Shallan followed Mraize, trying not to be trapped with Iyatil. Unfortunately, the woman put her hand up to stop Shallan.

“Something is wrong with him,” Iyatil said softly. “I do not think he has been replaced with a duplicate, but I do question his loyalty to our cause.”

Thankfully, the words were in Alethi. Perhaps because she’d just been speaking to Sja-anat in that tongue, and continued on momentum. Perhaps it was because in this room, away from the others, she didn’t worry about being overheard. Or perhaps with Sja-anat around… she wanted to be?

Iyatil still focused on Mraize, thoughtful. “I’ve spent so long training him. It is natural for him to want his own acolytes. But he thinks solely of his own advancement, and not the greater purpose.”

Shallan needed to push. She needed answers. She found herself speaking in a whisper. “Thaidakar’s purpose.”

“Master Thaidakar will see eventually,” Iyatil said. “He is smarter than you give him credit for. He works to protect his homeland above all else, but once we find Mishram for my purposes, he will see. Master Thaidakar can only protect his land if the Shards can be controlled. Will this fit your plans as well?”

Stay silent? Or speak? Which was more suspicious?

Iyatil looked at her, waiting. Shallan sweated, and tried giving a nod again.

“That’s it?” Iyatil said. “You’ve been so…”

She focused on Shallan, eyes widening behind her mask. Shockspren exploded around her. Damnation. That was it.

Iyatil lunged, and Shallan caught the hand, expecting a knife—but Iyatil wasn’t attacking. She was reaching for Shallan’s hood, and in her deflection Shallan knocked it aside, revealing her wig.

Iyatil hissed, then shouted, scrambling backward, “Radiants! We are discovered!”

Excerpted from Wind and Truth, copyright © 2024 Dragonsteel Entertainment.

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Wind and Truth

Brandon Sanderson

Book Five of The Stormlight Archive

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Wind and Truth

Brandon Sanderson

Book Five of The Stormlight Archive

Book Five of The Stormlight Archive

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