Words of Radiance (Page 172)

Kaladin sat back down on the bench in his cell. Wit wore his black-on-black, his thin silver sword undone from his waist and sitting on the bench beside him. A brown sack slumped there as well. Wit leaned down to tune his instrument, one leg crossed over the other. He hummed softly to himself and nodded. “Perfect pitch,” Wit said, “makes this all so much easier than it once was. . . .”

Kaladin sat, waiting, as Wit settled back against the wall. Then did nothing.

“Well?” Kaladin asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Are you going to play music for me?”

“No. You wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I like visiting people in prison. I can say whatever I want to them, and they can’t do anything about it.” He looked up at Kaladin, then rested his hands on his instrument, smiling. “I’ve come for a story.”

“What story?”

“The one you’re going to tell me.”

“Bah,” Kaladin said, lying back down on his bench. “I’m in no mood for your games today, Wit.”

Wit plucked a note on his instrument. “Everyone always says that—which, first off, makes it a cliche. I am led to wonder. Is anyone ever in the mood for my games? And if they are, would that not defeat the point of my type of game in the first place?”

Kaladin sighed as Wit continued to pluck out notes. “If I play along today,” Kaladin asked, “will that get rid of you?”

“I will leave as soon as the story is done.”

“Fine. A man went to jail. He hated it there. The end.”

“Ah . . .” Wit said. “So it’s a story about a child, then.”

“No, it’s about—” Kaladin cut off.

Me.

“Perhaps a story for a child,” Wit said. “I will tell you one, to get you in the mood. A bunny rabbit and a chick went frolicking in the grass together on a sunny day.”

“A chick . . . baby chicken?” Kaladin said. “And a what?”

“Ah, forgot myself for a moment,” Wit said. “Sorry. Let me make it more appropriate for you. A piece of wet slime and a disgusting crab thing with seventeen legs slunk across the rocks together on an insufferably rainy day. Is that better?”

“I suppose. Is the story over?”

“It hasn’t started yet.”

Wit abruptly slapped the strings, then began to play them with ferocious intent. A vibrant, energetic repetition. One punctuated note, then seven in a row, frenzied.

The rhythm got inside of Kaladin. It seemed to shake the entire room.

“What do you see?” Wit demanded.

“I . . .”

“Close your eyes, idiot!”

Kaladin closed his eyes. This is stupid.

“What do you see?” Wit repeated.

Wit was playing with him. The man was said to do that. He was supposedly Sigzil’s old mentor. Shouldn’t Kaladin have earned a reprieve by helping out his apprentice?

There was nothing of humor to those notes. Those powerful notes. Wit added a second melody, complementing the first. Was he playing that with his other hand? Both at the same time? How could one man, one instrument, produce so much music?

Kaladin saw . . . in his mind . . .

A race.

“That’s the song of a man who is running,” Kaladin said.

“In the driest part of the brightest day, the man set off from the eastern sea.” Wit said it perfectly to the beat of his music, a chant that was almost a song. “And where he went or why he ran, the answer comes from you to me.”

“He ran from the storm,” Kaladin said softly.

“The man was Fleet, whose name you know; he’s spoken of in song and lore. The fastest man e’er known to live. The surest feet e’er known to roam. In time long past, in times I’ve known, he raced the Herald Chan-a-rach. He won that race, as he did each one, but now the time for defeat had come.

“For Fleet so sure, and Fleet the quick, to all that heard he yelled his goal: to beat the wind, and race a storm. A claim so brash, a claim too bold. To race the wind? It can’t be done. Undaunted, Fleet was set to run. So to the east, there went our Fleet. Upon the shore his mark was set.

“The storm grew strong, the storm grew wild. Who was this man all set to dash? No man should tempt the God of Storms. No fool had ever been so rash.”

How did Wit play this music with only two hands? Surely another hand had joined him. Should Kaladin look?

In his mind’s eye, he saw the race. Fleet, a barefooted man. Wit claimed all knew of him, but Kaladin had never heard of such a story. Lanky, tall, with tied-back long hair that went to his waist. Fleet took his mark on the shore, leaning forward in a running posture, waiting as the stormwall thundered and crashed across the sea toward him. Kaladin jumped as Wit hit a burst of notes, signaling the race’s start.

Fleet tore off just in front of an angry, violent wall of water, lightning, and wind-blown rocks.

Wit did not speak again until Kaladin prompted him. “At first,” Kaladin said, “Fleet did well.”

“O’er rock and grass, our Fleet did run! He leaped the stones and dodged the trees, his feet a blur, his soul a sun! The storm so grand, it raged and spun, but away from it our Fleet did run! The lead was his, the wind behind, did man now prove that storms could lose?

“Through land he ran so quick and sure, and Alethkar he left behind. But now the test he saw ahead, for mountains he would have to climb. The storm surged on, released a howl; it saw its chance might now approach.

“To the highest mounts and the coldest peaks, our hero Fleet did make his way. The slopes were steep and paths unsure. Would he maintain his mighty lead?”

“Obviously not,” Kaladin said. “You can never stay ahead. Not for long.”

“No! The storm grew close, ’til it chewed his heels. Upon his neck, Fleet felt its chill. Its breath of ice was all around, a mouth of night and wings of frost. Its voice was of the breaking rocks; its song was of the crashing rain.”

Kaladin could feel it. Icy water seeping through his clothing. Wind buffeting his skin. A roar so loud that soon, he could hear nothing at all.

He’d been there. He’d felt it.

“Then the tip he reached! The point he found! Fleet climbed no more; he crossed the peak. And down the side, his speed returned! Outside the storm, Fleet found the sun. Azir’s plains were now his path. He sprinted west, more broad his stride.”

“But he was growing weak,” Kaladin said. “No man can run that far without getting tired. Even Fleet.”

“Yet soon the race its toll did claim. His feet like bricks, his legs like cloth. In gasps our runner drew his breath. The end approached, the storm outdone, but slowly did our hero run.”

“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.