“More mountains,” Kaladin whispered. “Shinovar.”
“A final challenge raised its head, a final shadow to his dread. The land did rise up once again, the Misted Mountains guarding Shin. To leave the storming winds behind, our Fleet again began to climb.”
“The storm caught up.”
“The storms again came to his back, the winds again did spin around! The time was short, the ending near, as through those mounts our Fleet did dash.”
“It was right upon him. Even going down the other side of the mountains, he was unable to stay very far ahead.”
“He crossed the peaks, but lost his lead. The last paths lay before his feet, but strength he’d spent and might he’d lost. Each step was toil, each breath in pain. A sunken land he crossed with grief, the grass so dead it did not move.
“But here the storm, it too did wilt, with thunder lost and lightning spent. The drops slipped down, now weak as wet. For Shin is not a place for them.
“Ahead the sea, the race’s end. Fleet stayed ahead, his muscles raw. Eyes barely saw, legs barely walked, but on he went to destiny. The end you know, the end will live, a shock for men to me you’ll give.”
Music, but no words. Wit waited for Kaladin’s reply. Enough of this, Kaladin thought. “He died. He didn’t make it. The end.”
The music stopped abruptly. Kaladin opened his eyes, looking toward Wit. Would he be mad that Kaladin had made such a poor conclusion to the story?
Wit stared at him, instrument still in his lap. The man didn’t seem angry. “So you do know this story,” Wit said.
“What? I thought you were making it up.”
“No, you were.”
“Then what is there to know?”
Wit smiled. “All stories told have been told before. We tell them to ourselves, as did all men who ever were. And all men who ever will be. The only things new are the names.”
Kaladin sat up. He tapped one finger against his stone block of a bench. “So… Fleet. Was he real?”
“As real as I am,” Wit said.
“And he died?” Kaladin said. “Before he could finish the race?”
“He died.” Wit smiled.
“What?”
Wit attacked the instrument. Music ripped through the small room. Kaladin rose to his feet as the notes reached new heights.
“Upon that land of dirt and soil,” Wit shouted, “our hero fell and did not stir! His body spent, his strength undone, Fleet the hero was no more.
“The storm approached and found him there. It stilled and stopped upon its course! The rains they fell, the winds they blew, but forward they could not progress.
“For glory lit, and life alive, for goals unreached and aims to strive. All men must try, the wind did see. It is the test, it is the dream.”
Kaladin stepped slowly up to the bars. Even with eyes open, he could see it. Imagine it.
“So in that land of dirt and soil, our hero stopped the storm itself. And while the rain came down like tears, our Fleet refused to end this race. His body dead, but not his will, within those winds his soul did rise.
“It flew upon the day’s last song, to win the race and claim the dawn. Past the sea and past the waves, our Fleet no longer lost his breath. Forever strong, forever fast, forever free to race the wind.”
Kaladin rested his hands against the bars of his cage. The music rang in the room, then slowly died.
Kaladin gave it a moment, Wit looking at his instrument, a proud smile on his lips. Finally, he tucked his instrument under his arm, took his bag and sword, and walked toward the doorway out.
“What does it mean?” Kaladin whispered.
“It’s your story. You decide.”
“But you already knew it.”
“I know most stories, but I’d never sung this one before.” Wit looked back at him, smiling. “What does it mean, Kaladin of Bridge Four? Kaladin Stormblessed?”
“The storm caught him,” Kaladin said.
“The storm catches everyone, eventually. Does it matter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good.” Wit tipped his sword up toward his forehead, as if in respect. “Then you have something to think about.”
He left.
Map of Stormseat
60. Veil Walks
Have you given up on the gemstone, now that it is dead? And do you no longer hide behind the name of your old master? I am told that in your current incarnation you’ve taken a name that references what you presume to be one of your virtues.
“Aha!” Shallan said. She scrambled across her fluffy bed—sinking down practically to her neck with each motion—and leaned precariously over the side. She scrabbled among the stacks of papers on the floor, tossing aside irrelevant sheets.
Finally, she retrieved the one she wanted, holding it up while pushing hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ears. The page was a map, one of those ancient ones that Jasnah had talked about. It had taken forever to find a merchant at the Shattered Plains who had a copy.
“Look,” Shallan said, holding the map beside a modern one of the same area, copied by her own hand from Amaram’s wall.
Bastard, she noted to herself.
She turned the maps around so that Pattern—who decorated the wall above her headboard—could see them.
“Maps,” he said.
“A pattern!” Shallan exclaimed.
“I see no pattern.”
“Look right here,” she said, edging over beside the wall. “On this old map, the area is…”
“Natanatan,” Pattern read, then hummed softly.
“One of the Epoch Kingdoms,” Shallan said. “Organized by the Heralds themselves for divine purposes and blah blah. But look.” She stabbed the page with her finger. “The capital of Natanatan, Stormseat. If you were to judge where we’d find the ruins of it, comparing this old map to the one Amaram had…”
“It would be in those mountains somewhere,” Pattern said, “between the words ‘Dawn’s Shadow’ and the U in ‘Unclaimed Hills.’”
“No, no,” Shallan said. “Use a little imagination! The old map is wildly inaccurate. Stormseat was right here. On the Shattered Plains.”
“That is not what the map says,” Pattern said, humming.
“Close enough.”
“That is not a pattern,” he said, sounding offended. “Humans; you do not understand patterns. Like right now. It is second moon. Each night, you sleep during this time. But not tonight.”
“I can’t sleep tonight.”
“More information, please,” Pattern said. “Why not tonight? Is it the day of the week? Do you always not sleep on Jesel? Or is it the weather? Has it grown too warm? The position of the moons relative to—”
“It’s none of that,” Shallan said, shrugging. “I just can’t sleep.”
“Your body is capable of it, surely.”
“Probably,” Shallan said. “But not my head. It surges with too many ideas, like waves against the rocks. Rocks that… I guess… are also in my head.” She cocked her head. “I don’t think that metaphor makes me sound particularly bright.”