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.
“The storm approached and found him there. It stilled and stopped upon its course! The rains they fell, the winds they blew, but forward they could not progress.
“For glory lit, and life alive, for goals unreached and aims to strive. All men must try, the wind did see. It is the test, it is the dream.”
Kaladin stepped slowly up to the bars. Even with eyes open, he could see it. Imagine it.
“So in that land of dirt and soil, our hero stopped the storm itself. And while the rain came down like tears, our Fleet refused to end this race. His body dead, but not his will, within those winds his soul did rise.
“It flew upon the day’s last song, to win the race and claim the dawn. Past the sea and past the waves, our Fleet no longer lost his breath. Forever strong, forever fast, forever free to race the wind.”
Kaladin rested his hands against the bars of his cage. The music rang in the room, then slowly died.
Kaladin gave it a moment, Wit looking at his instrument, a proud smile on his lips. Finally, he tucked his instrument under his arm, took his bag and sword, and walked toward the doorway out.
“What does it mean?” Kaladin whispered.
“It’s your story. You decide.”
“But you already knew it.”
“I