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 fragrances 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?”