Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,445

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