Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

“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.

“Wit?” Kaladin finally said. “Do you … maybe have a story you could tell me?”

Wit froze, spoon in his mouth. He stared at Kaladin, lowering his hand, leaving the spoon between his lips—before eventually opening his mouth to stare slack-jawed, the spoon falling into his waiting hand.

“What?” Kaladin asked. “Why are you so surprised?”

“Well,” Wit said, recovering. “It’s simply that … I’ve been waiting for someone to actually ask. They never seem to.” He grinned, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There is an inn,” he whispered, “that you cannot find on your own. You must stumble across it on a misty street, late at night, lost and uncertain in a strange city.

“The door has a wheel on it, but the sign bears no name. If you find the place and wander inside, you’ll meet a young man behind the bar. He has no name. He cannot tell it to you, should he want to—it’s been taken from him. But he’ll know you, as he knows everyone who enters the inn. He’ll listen to everything you want to tell him—and you will want to talk to him. And if you ask him for a story, he’ll share one. Like he shared with me. I will now share it with you.”

“All right…” Kaladin said.

“Hush. This isn’t the part where you talk,” Wit said. He settled in, then turned his hand to the side with a curt gesture, palm up. A Cryptic appeared beside him, forming as if from mist. This one wore a stiff robe like they did in Shadesmar, the head a lacy and intricate pattern somehow more … fine and graceful than that of Shallan’s Pattern.

The Cryptic waved eagerly. Kaladin had heard that Wit was a Lightweaver now, but he hadn’t been surprised. He felt he’d seen Wit Lightweave long ago. Regardless, he didn’t act like he was in one of the Radiant orders. He was just … well, Wit.

“This story,” Wit said, “is a meaningless one. You must not search for a moral. It isn’t that kind of story, you see. It’s the other kind of story.”

The Cryptic held up a flute, and Kaladin recognized it. “Your flute!” he said. “You found it?”

“This is a dream, idiot,” Wit said. “It’s not real.”

“Oh,” Kaladin said. “Right.”

“I’m real!” the Cryptic said with a musical, feminine voice. “Not imaginary at all! Unfortunately, I am irrational! Ha ha!” She began to play the flute, moving her fingers along it—and while soft music came out, Kaladin wasn’t certain what she was doing to produce the sounds. She didn’t have lips.

“This story,” Wit said, “is called ‘The Dog and the Dragon.’”

“The … what and the what?” Kaladin said. “Or is this not the part where I speak yet?”

“You people,” Wit said. “A dog is a hound, like an axehound.” He held up his palm, and a creature appeared in it, four-legged and furry, like a mink—only larger, and with a different face shape.

“It is funny, you can’t realize,” Wit said. “Humans will selectively breed for the same traits regardless of the planet they’re on. But you can’t be amazed at the convergent examples of domestication across the cosmere. You can’t know any of this, because you live on a giant ball of rock full of slime where everything is wet and cold all the time. This is a dog, Kaladin. They’re fluffy and loyal and wonderful. This, on the other hand, is a dragon.”

A large beast appeared in his other hand, like a chasmfiend—except with enormous outstretched wings and only four legs. It was a brilliant pearlescent color, with silver running along the contours of its body. It also had smaller chitinous bits than a chasmfiend—in fact, its body was covered with little pieces of carapace that looked smooth to the touch. It stood proud, with a prominent chest and a regal bearing.

“I know of just one on Roshar,” Wit noted, “and she prefers to hide her true form. This story isn’t about her, however, or any of the dragons I’ve met. In fact, the dragon is barely in the story, and I’d kindly ask you not to complain about that part, because there’s really nothing I can do about it and you’ll only annoy Design.”

The Cryptic waved again. “I get annoyed easily!” she said. “It’s endearing.”

“No it’s not,” Wit said.

“It’s endearing!” Design said. “To everyone but him! I drew up a proof of it!” The music continued playing as she spoke, and the way she moved her fingers on the flute seemed completely random.

“One day, the dog saw the dragon flying overhead,” Wit continued, sending the illusory dragon soaring above his hand.

Kaladin was glad for the story. Anything to keep his attention off the hateful wind, which he could faintly hear outside, howling as if eager to rush into the bubble of light and assault him.

“The dog marveled,” Wit said, “as one might expect. He had never seen anything so majestic or grand. The dragon soared in the sky, shimmering with iridescent colors in the sunlight. When it curved around and passed above the dog, it called out a mighty challenge, demanding in the human tongue that all acknowledge its beauty.

“The dog watched this from atop a hill. Now, he wasn’t particularly large, even for a dog. He was white, with brown spots and floppy ears. Not of any specific breed or lineage, and small enough that the other dogs often mocked him. He was a common variety of a common species of a common animal that most people would rightfully ignore.

“But when this dog stared at the dragon and heard the mighty boast, he came to a realization. Today, he had encountered something he’d always wished for but never known. Today he’d seen perfection, and had been presented with a goal. From today, nothing else mattered.

“He was going to become a dragon.”

“Hint,” Design whispered to Kaladin, “that’s impossible. A dog can’t become a dragon.”

“Design!” Wit said, turning on her. “What did I tell you about spoiling the ending of stories!”

“Something stupid, so I forgot it!” she said, her pattern bursting outward like a blooming flower.

“Don’t spoil stories!” Wit said.

“That’s stupid. The story is really long. He needs to hear the ending so he’ll know it’s worth listening all the way.”

“That’s not how this works,” Wit said. “It needs drama. Suspense. Surprise.”

“Surprises are dumb,” she said. “He should be informed if a product is good or not before being asked to commit. Would you like a similar surprise at the market? Oh, you can’t buy a specific food. You have to carry a sack home, cut it open, then find out what you bought. Drama. Suspense!”