Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,446

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?”

“Are you close to that?”

“Yes,” Kaladin whispered.

“Then best eat your stew,” Wit said, pointing with his spoon. “A man shouldn’t lie down and die on an empty stomach.”

Kaladin waited for more, some insight or encouragement. Wit merely ate, and so Kaladin tried to do the same. Though the stew was perfect, he couldn’t enjoy it. Not while knowing that the storm awaited him. That he wasn’t free of it, that it was going to get worse.

“Wit?” Kaladin finally said. “Do you … maybe have a story you could tell me?”

Wit froze, spoon in his mouth. He stared at Kaladin, lowering his hand, leaving the spoon between his lips—before eventually opening his mouth to stare slack-jawed, the spoon falling into his waiting hand.

“What?” Kaladin asked. “Why are you so surprised?”

“Well,” Wit said, recovering. “It’s simply that … I’ve been waiting for someone to actually ask. They never seem to.” He grinned, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There is an inn,” he whispered, “that you cannot find on your own. You must stumble across it on a misty street, late at night, lost and uncertain in a strange city.

“The door has a wheel on it, but the sign bears no name. If you find the place and wander inside, you’ll meet a young man behind the bar. He has no name. He cannot tell it to you, should he want to—it’s been taken from him. But he’ll know you, as he knows everyone who enters the inn. He’ll listen to everything you want to tell him—and you will want to talk to him. And if you ask him for a story, he’ll share one. Like he shared with me. I will now share it with you.”

“All right…” Kaladin said.

“Hush. This isn’t the part where you talk,” Wit said. He settled in, then turned his hand to the side with a curt gesture, palm up. A Cryptic appeared beside him, forming as if from mist. This one wore a stiff robe like they did in Shadesmar, the head a lacy and intricate pattern somehow more … fine and graceful than that of Shallan’s Pattern.

The Cryptic waved eagerly. Kaladin had heard that Wit was a Lightweaver now, but he hadn’t been surprised. He felt he’d seen Wit Lightweave long ago. Regardless, he didn’t act like he was in one of the Radiant orders. He was just … well, Wit.

“This story,” Wit said, “is a meaningless one. You must not search for a moral. It isn’t that kind of story, you see. It’s the other kind of story.”

The Cryptic held up a flute, and Kaladin recognized it. “Your flute!” he said. “You found it?”

“This is a dream, idiot,” Wit said. “It’s not real.”

“Oh,” Kaladin said. “Right.”

“I’m real!” the Cryptic said with a musical, feminine voice. “Not imaginary at all! Unfortunately, I am irrational! Ha ha!” She began to play the flute, moving her fingers along it—and while soft music came out, Kaladin wasn’t certain what she was doing to produce the sounds. She didn’t have lips.

“This story,” Wit said, “is called ‘The Dog and the Dragon.’”

“The … what and the what?” Kaladin said. “Or is this not the part where I speak yet?”

“You people,” Wit said. “A dog is a hound, like an axehound.”