Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

“It worked! The dog lowered down slowly, striking a magnificent pose in the air. He was flying! He soared like the dragon had! He felt the air around him, and knew the sensation of being up high, with everything below him. When he landed, he felt so proud and so free.

“Then the other dogs laughed the loudest they had ever laughed. ‘That is not flying like a dragon!’ they said. ‘You fell slowly. You looked so stupid and silly. Go back to being a dog.’

“This, at long last, crushed the dog’s hopes. He realized the truth. A dog like him simply could not become a dragon. He was too small, too quiet, too silly.”

Frankly, the sight of the dog being lowered on the rope had looked a bit silly. “They were right,” Kaladin said. “That wasn’t flying.”

Wit nodded.

“Oh, is this the place where I talk?” Kaladin said.

“If you wish.”

“I don’t wish. Get on with the story.”

Wit grinned, then leaned forward, waving in the air and making the sounds of shouting come from a distant part of the illusion, not yet visible. “What was that? The dog looked up, confused. He heard noises. Sudden shouting? Yells of panic?

“The dog raced out of the barn to find the farmer and his family huddled around the small farmyard well, which was barely wide enough for the bucket. The dog put his paws up on the edge of the well and looked down. Far below, in the deep darkness of the hole, he heard crying and splashing.”

Kaladin leaned forward, staring into the darkness. A pitiful, gurgling cry was barely audible over the splashing.

“The littlest child of the farmer and his wife had fallen into the well,” Wit whispered, “and was drowning. The family screamed and wept. There was nothing to be done. Or … was there?

“In a flash, the dog knew what to do. He bit the bucket off the well’s rope, then had the eldest son tie the rope to his harness. He wrote ‘lower me’ in the dirt, then hopped up onto the rim of the well. Finally, he threw himself into the well as the farmer grabbed the crank.

“Lowered down on this rope, the dog ‘flew’ into the darkness. He found the baby all the way underwater, but shoved his snout in and took hold of the baby’s clothing with his teeth. A short time later, when the family pulled him back up, the dog appeared holding the littlest child: wet, crying, but very much alive.

“That night, the family set a place for the little dog at their table and gave him a sweater to keep him warm, his name written across the front with letters he could read. They served a feast with food the dog had helped grow. They gave him some of the cake celebrating the birthday of the child whose life he had saved.

“That night, it rained on the other dogs, who slept outside in the cold barn, which leaked. But the little dog snuggled into a warm bed beside the fire, hugged by the farmer’s children, his belly full. And as he did, the dog sadly thought to himself, ‘I could not become a dragon. I am an utter and complete failure.’

“The end.”

Wit clapped his hands, and the images vanished. He gave a seated bow. Design lowered her flute and flared out her pattern again, as if to give her own bow.

Then Wit picked up his bowl of stew and continued eating.

“Wait,” Kaladin said, standing. “That’s it?”

“Did you miss ‘the end’ at the end?” Design said. “It indicates that is the end.”

“What kind of ending is that?” Kaladin said. “The dog decides he’s a failure?”

“Endings are an art,” Wit said loftily. “A precise and unquestionable art, bridgeman. Yes, that is the ending.”

“Why did you tell me this?” Kaladin demanded.

“You asked for a story.”

“I wanted a useful story!” he said, waving his hand. “Like the story of the emperor on the island, or of Fleet who kept running.”

“You didn’t specify that,” Wit said. “You said you wanted a story. I provided one. That is all.”

“That’s the wrong ending,” Kaladin said. “That dog was incredible. He learned to write. How many animals can write, on any world?”

“Not many, I should say,” Wit noted.

“He learned to farm and to use tools,” Kaladin said. “He saved a child’s life. That dog is a storming hero.”

“The story wasn’t about him trying to be a hero,” Wit said. “It was about him trying to be a dragon. In which, pointedly, he failed.”

“I told you!” Design said happily. “Dogs can’t be dragons!”

“Who cares?” Kaladin said, stalking back and forth. “By looking up at the dragon, and by trying to become better, he outgrew the other dogs. He achieved something truly special.” Kaladin stopped, then narrowed his eyes at Wit, feeling his anger turn to annoyance. “This story is about me, isn’t it? I said I’m not good enough. You think I have impossible goals, and I’m intentionally ignoring the things I’ve accomplished.”

Wit pointed with his spoon. “I told you this story has no meaning. You promised not to assign it one.”

“As a matter of fact,” Design said, “you didn’t give him a chance to promise! You simply kept talking.”

Wit glared at her.

“Blah blah blah blah blah!” she said, rocking her pattern head back and forth at each word.

“Your stories always have a point,” Kaladin said.

“I am an artist,” Wit said. “I should thank you not to demean me by insisting my art must be trying to accomplish something. In fact, you shouldn’t enjoy art. You should simply admit that it exists, then move on. Anything else is patronizing.”

Kaladin folded his arms, then sat. Wit, playing games again. Couldn’t he ever be clear? Couldn’t he ever say what he meant?

“Any meaning,” Wit said softly, “is for you to assign, Kaladin. I merely tell the stories. Have you finished your stew?”

Kaladin realized he had—he’d eaten the entire bowl while listening.

“I can’t keep this bubble up much longer, I’m afraid,” Wit said. “He’ll notice if I do—and then he’ll destroy me. I have violated our agreement, which exposes me to his direct action. I’d rather not be killed, as I have seven more people I wanted to insult today.”

Kaladin nodded, standing up again. He realized that somehow, the story fired him up. He felt stronger, less for the words and more for how annoyed he’d grown at Wit.

A little light, a little warmth, a little fire and he felt ready to walk out into the winds again. Yet he knew the darkness would return. It always did.

“Can you tell me the real ending?” Kaladin asked, his voice small. “Before I go back out?”

Wit stood and stepped over, then put his hand on Kaladin’s back and leaned in. “That night,” he said, “the little dog snuggled into a warm bed beside the fire, hugged by the farmer’s children, his belly full. And as he did, the dog thought to himself, ‘I doubt any dragon ever had it so good anyway.’”

He smiled and met Kaladin’s eyes.

“It won’t be like that for me,” Kaladin said. “You told me it would get worse.”