“Maybe you should remain quiet,” Rlain said, searching the ceiling for cremlings. “Or maybe we should get you out.”
“We’ve been watching for cremlings,” Lirin said. “And haven’t seen any. Nothing so far. As for the Pursuer, Venli says that we should be safe from him, so long as that Heavenly One, Leshwi, protects us.”
“I don’t know how much I trust any of them, Lirin,” Rlain said. “Particularly Fused.”
“Agreed,” Lirin said. “What games are they playing? Leshwi didn’t even ask after my son. Do you have any idea why they are acting this way?”
“Sorry,” Rlain said. “I’m baffled. Our songs barely mention the Fused except to say to avoid them.”
Lirin grunted. Like the others, he seemed to expect Rlain to understand the Fused and Regals more than he did—but to the surgeon’s credit, he and Hesina had accepted Rlain without suspicion, despite his race. For all that Lirin complained about Kaladin, it seemed he considered someone his son called a friend to be worthy of trust.
“And Venli?” Lirin asked. “She wears a Regal form. Can we trust her?”
“Venli could have left me in prison,” Rlain said. “I think she’s proven herself.”
“Unless it’s a long con of some sort,” Lirin said, his eyes narrowing.
Rlain hummed to Reconciliation. “I’m surprised to hear of your suspicion. Kaladin said you always saw the best in people.”
“My son doesn’t know me nearly as well as he presumes,” Lirin said. He continued standing by the drapes.
Rlain made his way past the surgery table to where Hesina had set out one of his stolen maps on the floor. There, he hummed to Anxiety. “Maybe we shouldn’t have these out,” he whispered. “With those Regals around.”
“We can’t live our lives terrified of enemies at every corner, Rlain,” Hesina said. “If they wanted to take us, they’d have done it already. We have to assume we’re safe, for now.”
Rlain hummed to Anxiety. But … there was wisdom in her words. He forced himself to calm. He had seen that cremling, yes, but didn’t know it had a Voidspren. Perhaps he was jumping at shadows. Likely, he was just on edge because of the way everyone treated him during his trips through the tower.
“I keep thinking,” Hesina said, looking over the map, “that if we could get this to Kal, it might help.”
Rlain glanced at Lirin, humming to Curiosity. Hesina wouldn’t catch the rhythm, but she clearly understood his body language.
“Lirin’s dispute is not mine,” Hesina said. “He can play the stoic pacifist all he wants—and I’ll love him for it. But I’m not going to leave Kal out there alone with no help. You think if he had exact maps of the tower, he might have a better chance?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Rlain said, kneeling beside her. They’d all heard about what Kaladin had done the other day—appearing spectacularly in the Breakaway market, engaging the Fused, fighting in the air.
The Fused were obviously frightened. They had immediately started publicizing that they’d killed him. Too quickly, and too forcefully, without a body to show. The people of the tower weren’t buying it, and neither was Rlain. He’d joined Bridge Four later than most, but he’d been there for Kaladin’s most dramatic transformations. Stormblessed was alive in the tower somewhere, planning his next move.
Hesina continued to pore over the map of the tower’s sixth floor—but Rlain noticed something else. Hesina had set another map aside, one of the Shattered Plains. Rlain unrolled it fully and found himself attuning the Rhythm of the Lost. He’d never seen a full map, this detailed, of the entire Plains.
The immensity didn’t surprise him. He’d been out there as both listener and bridgeman. He’d flown with the Windrunners. He understood the scope of the Shattered Plains, and was prepared for Narak to seem diminutive when compared to the expanse of plateaus stretching in all directions. But he wasn’t prepared for how symmetrical it all was, now that he could see it all at once.
Yes, the Plains had most definitely been broken in a pattern. He hummed to Curiosity as he peered closer, and he picked out some cramped writing on the far eastern side of the Plains—where the plateaus were worn smaller by the winds. That was the direction the chasmfiends migrated after breeding or pupating. A dangerous area full of greatshells, herd animals, and predators as large as buildings.
“Hesina?” Rlain said, turning the map in her direction. “Can you read this part to me?”
She leaned over. “Scout report,” she said. “They found a camp out there, it seems. Some kind of large caravan or nomadic group. Maybe they’re Natans? A lot of this area is unexplored, Rlain.”
He hummed to himself, wondering if he should learn to read. Sigzil was always talking about how useful it was, though Rlain didn’t like the idea of relying on written words that had no life, instead of on songs. A piece of paper could be burned, lost, destroyed in a storm—but an entire people and their songs could not be so easily …
He trailed off. An entire people. It struck him anew that he was alone.
No, Venli is here, he thought. There were two of them. He’d never particularly liked Venli, but at least he wasn’t the sole listener. It made him wonder. Should they … try to rebuild? The idea nauseated him for multiple reasons. For one, the times he’d tried mateform himself, things hadn’t gone the way he—or anyone really—had expected.
Lirin abruptly pulled back from the curtains. His motion was so sudden that Hesina took it as a warning and immediately grabbed a sheet and pulled it over the maps. Then she laid out some bandages—to appear as if she’d spread the sheet onto the floor to keep the bandages clean as she rolled them. It was an excellent cover-up—one Rlain ruined by belatedly moving to tuck away his map of the Shattered Plains.
“It’s not that,” Lirin said, grabbing Rlain by the shoulder. “Come look. I think I recognize one of the workers.”
Lirin pointed out through the drapes, directing Rlain toward a short man. He had a mark on his forehead, but it wasn’t an inked shash glyph. It was a Bridge Four tattoo like Rlain’s own. Dabbid kept his eyes down, walking with his characteristic sense of mute subservience.
“I think that man was one of Kaladin’s friends,” Lirin said. “Am I right?”
Rlain nodded, then hummed softly to Anxiety and stepped out into the main room. He and Dabbid had often been set to work together as the only two members of Bridge Four who hadn’t gained Windrunner abilities. Seeing him opened that wound again for Rlain, and he hummed forcibly to Peace.
It wasn’t his fault that spren were as racist as humans. Or as singers. As people.
He quietly took Dabbid by the arm, steering him away from the Regals. “Storms, I’m glad to see you,” Rlain whispered. “I was worried about you, Dabbid. Where have you been? Were you frightened? Here, come help me bring some water to the others. Like the work we used to do, remember?”
He could imagine the poor mute hiding in a corner, crying as enemies flooded the tower. Dabbid had become kind of a mascot for Bridge Four. One of the first men Kaladin had saved. Dabbid represented what had been done to them, and the fact that they’d survived it. Wounded, but still alive.
Dabbid resisted as Rlain tugged him toward the water trough. The shorter bridgeman leaned in, then—remarkably—spoke.
“Rlain,” Dabbid said. “Please help. Kaladin is asleep, and he won’t wake up. I think … I think he’s dying.”
The singers first put Jezrien into a gemstone. They think they are clever, discovering they can trap us in those. It only took them seven thousand years.
Kaladin existed in a place where the wind hated him.
He remembered fighting in the market, then swimming through the well. He vaguely remembered running out into the storm—wanting to let go and drop away.
But no, he couldn’t give up. He’d climbed the outside of the tower. Because he’d known that if he fled, he’d leave Dabbid and Teft alone. If he fled, he’d leave Syl—maybe forever. So he’d climbed and …
And the Stormfather’s voice?
No, Dalinar’s voice.
That had been … days ago? Weeks? He didn’t know what had happened to him. He walked a place of constant winds. The faces of those he loved appeared in haunting shadows, each one begging for help. Flashes of light burned his skin, blinded him. The light was angry. And though Kaladin longed to escape the darkness, each new flash trained him to be more afraid of the light.
The worst part was the wind. The wind that hated him. It flayed him, slamming him against the rocks as he tried to find a hiding place to escape it.
Hate, it whispered. Hate. Hate hate.
Each time the wind spoke, it broke something inside Kal. Ever since he could remember—since childhood—he had loved the wind. The feel of it on his skin meant he was free. Meant he was alive. It brought new scents, clean and fresh. The wind had always been there, his friend, his companion, his ally. Until one day it had come to life and started talking to him.
Its hatred crushed him. Left him trembling. He screamed for Syl, then remembered that he’d abandoned her. He couldn’t remember how he’d come to this terrible place, but he remembered that. Plain as a dagger in his chest.
He’d left Syl alone, to lose herself because he’d gotten too far away. He’d abandoned the wind.
The wind crashed into him, pressing him against something hard. A rock formation? He was … somewhere barren. No sign of rockbuds or vines in the flashes of terrifying light. Only endless windswept, rocky crags. It reminded him of the Shattered Plains, but with far more variation to the elevations. Peaks and precipices, red and grey.
So many holes and tunnels. Surely there was a place to hide. Please. Just let me rest. For a minute.
He pushed forward, holding to the rock wall, trying not to stumble. He had to fight the wind. The terrible wind.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
Lightning flashed, blinding him. He huddled beside the rock as the wind blew stronger. When he started moving, he could see a bit better. Sometimes it was pure darkness. Sometimes he could see a little, though there was no light source he could locate. Merely a persistent directionless illumination. Like … like another place he couldn’t remember.
Hide. He had to hide.
Kal pushed off the wall, struggling against the wind. Figures appeared. Teft begging to know why Kal hadn’t rescued him. Moash pleading for help protecting his grandparents. Lirin dying as Roshone executed him.
Kal tried to ignore them, but if he squeezed his eyes shut, their cries became louder. So he forced himself forward, searching for shelter. He struggled up a short incline—but as soon as he reached the top, the wind reversed and blew him from behind, casting him down the other side. He landed on his shoulder, scraping up his arm as he slid across the stone.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
Kal forced himself to his knees. He … he didn’t give up. He … wasn’t a person who was allowed to give up. Was that right? It was hard … hard to remember.
He got to his feet, his arm hanging limp at his side, and kept walking. Against the wind again. Keep moving. Don’t let it stop you. Find a place. A place to hide.
He staggered forward, exhausted. How long had it been since he’d slept? Truly slept? For years, Kal had stumbled from one nightmare to another. He lived on willpower alone. But what would happen when he ran out of strength? What would happen when he simply … couldn’t?
“Syl?” he croaked. “Syl?”
The wind slammed into him and knocked him off balance, shoving him right up to the rim of a chasm. He teetered on the edge, terrified of the darkness below—but the wind didn’t give him a choice. It pushed him straight into the void.
He tumbled and fell, slamming into rocks along the chasm wall, denied peace even while falling. He hit the bottom with a solid crack to his head and a flash of light.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
He lay there. Letting it rail. Letting it pummel him. Was it time? Time to finally let go?
He forced himself to look up. And there—in the distance along the bottom of the chasm—he saw something beautiful. A pure white light. A longing warmth. The sight of it made him weep and cry out, reaching for it.
Something real. Something that didn’t hate him.
He needed to get to that light.
The fall had broken him. One arm didn’t work, and his legs were a mess of agony. He began crawling, dragging himself along with his working arm.
The wind redoubled its efforts, trying to force him back, but now that Kaladin had seen the light, he had to keep going. He gritted his teeth against the pain and hauled himself forward. Inch after inch. Defying the screaming wind, ignoring the shadows of dying friends.
Keep. Moving.
The light drew closer, and he longed to enter it. That place of warmth, that place of peace. He heard … a sound. A serene tone that wasn’t spiteful wind or whispered accusations.
Closer. Closer.
A little … farther …
He was just ten feet away. He could …
Suddenly, Kaladin began to sink. He felt the ground change, becoming liquid. Crem. The rock had somehow become crem, and it was sucking him down, collapsing beneath him.
He shouted, stretching his good arm toward the glowing pool of light. There was nothing to climb on, nothing to hold on to. He panicked, sinking deeper. The crem covered him, filling his mouth as he screamed—begging—reaching a trembling hand toward the light.
Until he slipped under the surface and was again in the suffocating darkness. As he sank away, Kal realized that the light had never been there for him to reach. It had been a lie, meant to give him a moment of hope in this awful, horrible place. So that hope could be taken. So that he could finally.
Be.
Broken.
A glowing arm plunged into the crem, burning it away like vapor. A hand seized Kaladin by the front of his vest, then heaved him up out of the pool. A glowing white figure pulled him close, sheltering him from the wind as it hauled him the last few feet toward the light.
Kaladin clung to the figure, feeling cloth, warmth, living breath. Another person among the shadows and lies. Was this … was this Honor? The Almighty himself?
The figure pulled him into the light, and the rest of the crem vanished, leaving a hint of a taste in Kaladin’s mouth. The figure deposited Kaladin on a small rock situated like a seat. As it stepped back, the figure drew in color, the light fading away, revealing …
Wit.
Kaladin blinked, glancing around. He was at the bottom of a chasm, yes, but inside a bubble of light. Outside, the wind still raged—but it couldn’t affect this place, this moment of peace.
He put a hand to his head, realizing he didn’t hurt any longer. In fact, he could see now that he was in a nightmare. He was asleep. He must have fallen unconscious after fleeing into the tempest.
Storms … What kind of fever did he have to prompt such terrible dreams? And why could he see it all so clearly now?
Wit looked up at the tumultuous sky far above, beyond the chasm rims. “This isn’t playing fair. Not fair at all…”
“Wit?” Kaladin asked. “How are you here?”
“I’m not,” Wit said. “And neither are you. This is another planet, or it looks like one—and not a pleasant one, mind you. The kind without lights. No Stormlight ones, gaseous ones, or even electric ones. Damn place barely has an atmosphere.”
He glanced at Kaladin, then smiled. “You’re asleep. The enemy is sending you a vision, similar to those the Stormfather sent Dalinar. I’m not certain how Odium isolated you though. It’s hard for Shards to invade minds like this except in a specific set of circumstances.”
He shook his head, hands on his hips, as if he were regarding a sloppy painting. Then he settled down on a stool beside a fire that Kaladin only now saw. A warm, inviting fire that completely banished the chill, radiating straight through Kaladin’s bones to his soul. A pot of simmering stew sat on top, and Wit stirred it, sending spiced fra
grances into the air.
“Rock’s stew,” Kaladin said.
“Old Horneater recipe.”
“Take everything you have, and put him in pot,” Kaladin said, smiling as Wit handed him a bowl of steaming stew. “But it’s not real. You just told me.”
“Nothing is real,” Wit said. “At least by one measure of philosophy. So enjoy what you seem to be able to eat and don’t complain.”
Kaladin did so, taking the most wonderful bite of stew he’d ever tasted. It was hard to avoid glancing out past the glowing barrier of light at the storm outside.
“How long can I stay with you?” Kaladin asked.
“Not long, I fear,” Wit said, serving himself a bowl of stew. “Twenty minutes or so.”
“I have to go back out into that?”
Wit nodded. “I’m afraid it’s going to get worse, Kaladin. I’m sorry.”
“Worse than this?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I’m not strong enough, Wit,” Kaladin whispered. “It has all been a lie. I’ve never been strong enough.”
Wit took a bite of his stew, then nodded.
“You … agree?” Kaladin asked.
“You know better than I what your limits are,” Wit said. “It’s not such a terrible thing, to be too weak. Makes us need one another. I should never complain if someone recognizes their failings, though it might put me out of a job if too many share your wisdom, young bridgeman.”
“And if all of this is too much for me?” Kaladin asked. “If I can’t keep fighting? If I just … stop? Give up?”
“Are you close to that?”
“Yes,” Kaladin whispered.
“Then best eat your stew,” Wit said, pointing with his spoon. “A man shouldn’t lie down and die on an empty stomach.”
Kaladin waited for more, some insight or encouragement. Wit merely ate, and so Kaladin tried to do the same. Though the stew was perfect, he couldn’t enjoy it. Not while knowing that the storm awaited him. That he wasn’t free of it, that it was going to get worse.
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