Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,447

He held up his palm, and a creature appeared in it, four-legged and furry, like a mink—only larger, and with a different face shape.

“It is funny, you can’t realize,” Wit said. “Humans will selectively breed for the same traits regardless of the planet they’re on. But you can’t be amazed at the convergent examples of domestication across the cosmere. You can’t know any of this, because you live on a giant ball of rock full of slime where everything is wet and cold all the time. This is a dog, Kaladin. They’re fluffy and loyal and wonderful. This, on the other hand, is a dragon.”

A large beast appeared in his other hand, like a chasmfiend—except with enormous outstretched wings and only four legs. It was a brilliant pearlescent color, with silver running along the contours of its body. It also had smaller chitinous bits than a chasmfiend—in fact, its body was covered with little pieces of carapace that looked smooth to the touch. It stood proud, with a prominent chest and a regal bearing.

“I know of just one on Roshar,” Wit noted, “and she prefers to hide her true form. This story isn’t about her, however, or any of the dragons I’ve met. In fact, the dragon is barely in the story, and I’d kindly ask you not to complain about that part, because there’s really nothing I can do about it and you’ll only annoy Design.”

The Cryptic waved again. “I get annoyed easily!” she said. “It’s endearing.”

“No it’s not,” Wit said.

“It’s endearing!” Design said. “To everyone but him! I drew up a proof of it!” The music continued playing as she spoke, and the way she moved her fingers on the flute seemed completely random.

“One day, the dog saw the dragon flying overhead,” Wit continued, sending the illusory dragon soaring above his hand.

Kaladin was glad for the story. Anything to keep his attention off the hateful wind, which he could faintly hear outside, howling as if eager to rush into the bubble of light and assault him.

“The dog marveled,” Wit said, “as one might expect. He had never seen anything so majestic or grand. The dragon soared in the sky, shimmering with iridescent colors in the sunlight. When it curved around and passed above the dog, it called out a mighty challenge, demanding in the human tongue that all acknowledge its beauty.

“The dog watched this from atop a hill. Now, he wasn’t particularly large, even for a dog. He was white, with brown spots and floppy ears. Not of any specific breed or lineage, and small enough that the other dogs often mocked him. He was a common variety of a common species of a common animal that most people would rightfully ignore.

“But when this dog stared at the dragon and heard the mighty boast, he came to a realization. Today, he had encountered something he’d always wished for but never known. Today he’d seen perfection, and had been presented with a goal. From today, nothing else mattered.

“He was going to become a dragon.”

“Hint,” Design whispered to Kaladin, “that’s impossible. A dog can’t become a dragon.”

“Design!” Wit said, turning on her. “What did I tell you about spoiling the ending of stories!”

“Something stupid, so I forgot it!” she said, her pattern bursting outward like a blooming flower.

“Don’t spoil stories!” Wit said.

“That’s stupid. The story is really long. He needs to hear the ending so he’ll know it’s worth listening all the way.”

“That’s not how this works,” Wit said. “It needs drama. Suspense. Surprise.”

“Surprises are dumb,” she said. “He should be informed if a product is good or not before being asked to commit. Would you like a similar surprise at the market? Oh, you can’t buy a specific food. You have to carry a sack home, cut it open, then find out what you bought. Drama. Suspense!”

Wit gave Kaladin a beleaguered look. “I have bonded,” he said, “a literal monster.” He made a flourish, and a Lightweaving appeared between them again, showing the dog on a hilltop covered in grass that looked dead, since it didn’t move. The dog was staring upward at the dragon, which was growing smaller and smaller as it flew away.

“The dog,” Wit continued, “sat upon that hilltop through an entire night and day, staring. Thinking. Dreaming. Finally, he returned to the farm where he lived among others of his kind. These farm dogs all had jobs, chasing livestock or guarding the perimeter, but he—as the smallest—was seldom given any duty. Perhaps to another this