Chapter 103

Fear the old man who welcomed failure when young. If he has survived this long, he learned.

— Proverbs for Towers and War, Zenaz, date unknown

K aladin rose early on the ninth day and made breakfast. He wasn’t familiar with the vegetables they’d bought at that village a few days back. Some kind of root, Szeth had explained—except here, instead of growing down into cracks, roots dug into the soil. That just didn’t seem sanitary. He washed the long orange things three times, and found they tasted remarkably good raw—slightly sweet, and with a solid crunch. So he cut them and fried them in his travel skillet, and after they softened, a pinch of sugar enhanced their natural sweetness. And …

Storms. Rock really had made a bit of a chef out of Kaladin. He chuckled at this, though it was difficult to maintain good humor under the circumstances. He set out a plate for Szeth, who was meditating, then scooped the rest onto his own plate and settled on a nearby rock. He gazed out over the brownish-green landscape, with its hills and odd trees. In one of those an entire flock of chickens was roosting, bright red and green, and he could hear them clucking from here.

Syl settled down beside him. He was coming to like the way she went about full sized these days; he could judge her expression and mood better this way. Right now she slumped, wearing her modified and skirted uniform, elbows on her knees and chin in her hands as she floated half a foot off the ground, hair drifting around her head as if she were underwater.

“I don’t like this,” she said.

“Nale leaving early,” Kaladin said softly. “‘Preparing’ things at the next monastery.”

“He’s a creep,” Syl said. “How are the toes?”

“They’re called carrots.”

“They look like people’s toes.”

“Nobody has toes this long,” he said, eating. “And they’re good. Taste like a breakfast my mother made.” He hesitated. “I put sugar on them, like Mother always did for us kids. Rock really has corrupted me—he always insisted there were more flavors than ‘hot’ and ‘very hot.’”

Syl smiled, but clasped her hands in front of her, still concerned. So Kaladin ate, then took out his flute and played for a little while, his fingers increasingly comfortable holding the wooden instrument, calluses from wielding the spear finding a home with another kind of work.

The playing calmed him. And as it often did, the song brought the Wind. He felt its attention—the unseen ancient spren who inhabited this land.

“Any guesses on what I should expect?” Kaladin said. “Nale is obviously going to be waiting for us. This is the Skybreaker monastery, and he bears the Honorblade. They’ve tried so many underhanded ways to kill Szeth. I worry this will be the worst.”

“Because,” Syl added, “Nale is an utter creep. ”

“Please,” a quiet voice said. “Don’t speak of him like that.” The Wind stirred Kaladin’s hair, drifting past it.

“He might have once been a hero as you showed me,” Kaladin said. “But Wind, in my time Nale has been a source of only misery, death, and frustration.”

“He’s just weathered,” the Wind whispered. “Like that rock you sit upon.”

Kaladin frowned, shifting, looking at the stone beneath him. It was merely a smooth round stone, maybe three feet across.

“Like a rock?” Syl said. “Stubborn? Immovable?”

“You are not those who speak with Stone,” the Wind whispered. “I do not think you can hear its voice, even with my help. But touch it, Kaladin, Sylphrena. I will try.”

Kaladin glanced at Syl, who stood as he did. Curious, he pressed his hand to the stone, and she did likewise, her hand beside his. In a flash, he saw something. An … impression. The Wind was right though. He could not hear the voice of the stone, if it had one.

But he did see a beautiful statue of a woman. Full-figured, her arms outspread, gazing down at what had once been a road here. He did not know who would have placed such a fine statue in such an out-of-the-way place. Candles lit at its base made the site feel welcoming, like a waystop for weary travelers.

Then the years passed. He saw them in a rush. Rainstorm after rainstorm. He felt the wind on the stone, and over time the statue weathered. The lines wore down, the detail vanishing, and then the features melted away. Years stole the statue’s shape like sandpaper until, by the repeated washing of storms, it sank into the soil.

The impression faded. The stone Kaladin had been sitting upon had been a masterwork thousands of years ago. Now it was just another lump of rock.

“I told you,” the Wind said. “I love the Stones, and they are my sibling—but my touch breaks them, ever so slowly. Nale is one of these stones, Kaladin, Sylphrena. Time has weathered him away. But like this stone, a part of him remembers what he once was.”

“The only time I’ve given him pause,” Kaladin said, hand pressed to the rock, “was yesterday, when I asked him why he became a Herald.”

“Make him remember,” the Wind said. “Please. I know you do not care for the Heralds, Sylphrena, and they were not perfect, even when they were whole. Jezrien was proud, and Ishar thought himself above common people. Pralla loved her secrets, and Battar could be conniving. Chana avoided taking responsibility, and Nale could hold a grudge. But they were good people.

“And they tried. So very, very hard. Honor abandoned them to the weathering of time—but in some ways they are the best that remains of him. A piece of an infinite god is still infinite, and the power within these nine … I think we will need it, in days to come. Try to see their potential, not their faults.”

“I’ll … try,” Syl said with a sigh. “I mean, I know what you’re saying is right. Hard to feel it though.”

“It is hard for Nale to feel that way about himself too,” the Wind whispered. “Please, Kaladin. Help him.”

“I kind of have my hands full with Szeth,” Kaladin said, glancing to the side, where Szeth was returning from his meditations. “Don’t know if I have time for another patient.”

“But that,” the Wind said, “is why I brought you here.”

“You said a storm was coming,” Kaladin said, recalling the first conversation he’d had with the Wind at Urithiru.

“Yes,” the Wind said. “And they are the counter. Remember what the Bondsmith said. I need you …”

“But Heralds?” Kaladin said. “Wind, that might be a little beyond my skill. I told Dalinar the same.”

“You’ve already helped one who will soon be a Herald,” the Wind said, her voice fading. “It’s possible.”

Szeth arrived, and … well, Kaladin did suppose he’d helped the man. Szeth actually smiled as he picked up the plate. “For me?”

“Yes.”

“Carrots for breakfast,” Szeth said, shaking his head. “Stonewalkers … you have odd tastes.” He tried one. “Surprisingly good though. We should pack up and go. I suspect Nin will be waiting for us. I can eat as we walk.”

Kaladin looked at Syl, who nodded in agreement. So he cleaned up, then followed Szeth onward—to the penultimate monastery. Wind blowing quietly along with them, and spren streaming in the sky like a highway of light.

“Hold the wall!” Sigzil shouted through the pouring rain. “Hold!”

He swept along behind the ranks of men, who stood on the wall as water streamed down off the ramparts behind them. This persistent drizzle sank in with a deep chill, slicking surfaces and ruining bowstrings, not to mention obscuring their view of the plateaus around them. Corrupted windspren whipped past in the air, and the army faced a sea of red eyes staring out through the mist. Some among them unleashed a constant pounding of stones against the wall. Crashing rocks, smashing at the fortification—a terrible, erratic drumbeat that left Sigzil’s ears ringing.

Men worked with halberds and spears along the top—amid striking rocks—their weapons pointed down at the Deepest Ones, bits of whom peeked out of the wall. To counteract the barrage of stones, the defenders had used Stonewards to thicken the walls—but that made them wide enough for Deepest Ones to disappear into completely, popping out to attack the Stonewards behind it, who used their little remaining Stormlight to keep the fortification from falling apart.

The constant barrage was going to run them out within a few hours. The enemy, however, seemed to have as much Voidlight as they wanted. And Sigzil still hadn’t been able to come up with an application of his plan that would work.

Sigzil swooped along, trying to keep the soldiers protected. He had to have troops on the walls, as the enemy periodically dropped attackers up here. Indeed, something hit the wall nearby—something large. A Magnified One hauled himself up over onto the wall top a second later, followed by another. Sigzil cursed, forming his spear, and streaked toward them as they began battering soldiers away.

Husked Ones followed—three appearing on the wall from their ribbons of light to support the massive Magnified Ones. Sigzil struck at the largest of the creatures, and his spear sank deep—but the Magnified One grew thick carapace, pushing him back away with a growth like an expanding column of stone. Sigzil’s spear never touched anything vital, and that carapace grew at a furious rate in the storm, encasing his spear.

Sigzil was forced to pull back—lest his hands be captured in the overgrown chitin—dismissing his spear. The Magnified One broke off this segment of growth, like a tumor along its side, then swung for Sigzil with a hand that had become a large club. Sigzil ducked, then rushed at the Husked Ones—but was kept at bay by the Magnified One. The Fused did frightening damage to the defenders before the Stormwall arrived and distracted them. That finally gave Sigzil a chance to ram a spear straight through the back of a Husked One’s head. As the Fused collapsed off the wall into the rain, Sigzil lifted into the air, and noticed an encouraging flash of light from the next plateau over.

He flew toward it, but the two remaining Husked Ones zipped after him, becoming lines of light that materialized into figures grappling him. One held his arms back, immobilizing him as the other grabbed the front of his uniform, pulling him close.

“We were promised a chance to fight your leader,” the creature hissed to his face. “The one who defeated Lezian. Why does the Stormblessed not come to meet our challenge?”

Sigzil grunted, and began Lashing the creature away—but it clung to him, holding on tightly.

“If I kill you,” the creature asked, “will Stormblessed chase me down for vengeance?”

“You can’t kill me,” Sigzil hissed.

“You think you’re too strong?”

“No,” Sigzil whispered. “But I’ve heard the name of my killer screamed on the lips of a dying man. And it’s not you.” With a grunt, Sigzil kicked the creature free.

The Fused became a ribbon of light to return, but Sigzil was already Lashing himself and the other Fused upward—carrying them into the middle of a storm of Light, a group that had just arrived via Oathgate. Windrunner reinforcements swarmed around, dozens of them attacking. The Husked One behind Sigzil let go with a curse, then was chased away.

A familiar figure hovered over to Sigzil, giving a salute. “Hey, hooch,” Lopen said. “Sounds like you’ve been having a hard time of it.”

Sigzil nodded. “You heard …?”

“About Leyten. Yeah.” Lopen led the group of Windrunners who had taken the Mink to Herdaz. They were finally back, adding another twenty Radiants to Sigzil’s army. They helped chase the Skybreakers away, and the fight quieted for a while, the last Magnified One dying on the wall.

She had left tens of Sigzil’s soldiers dead and broken. One Stoneward killed. And those stones kept hitting the wall, crash after crash.

“You brought Stormlight?” Sigzil asked.

“Not much,” Lopen said. “Hooch … we nearly ran ourselves out flying that force for Dalinar. Then we get back, and there’s none to be had in the tower? There wasn’t enough to supply all of us, so half had to stay behind! What’s going on?”

“Both Bondsmiths are on a trip into the Spiritual Realm,” Sigzil said softly. “But that’s not widely known. So keep it to yourself and the command staff.”

He spun in the rain, waving to Lyn as she shot past. Natam hovered over. “Storms,” he whispered. “Sig, I’m sorry about …”

Sigzil nodded and wiped rainwater off his face. “If you two could help Skar and Peet keep things together here, I need to go and coordinate with the generals. We’re basically out of Stormlight. With the last of it we … we will need to retreat.”

They nodded, and Sigzil flew down past the broken bodies, feeling worn out. “Sigzil?” Vienta said. “I calculate we are at our limit. If we spend any more Stormlight—barring what the Windrunners brought—we won’t have enough to get our army through the Oathgate to safety.”

“Understood. Thank you.” He walked to his command post to give the order, but as he did he was met by Ka with a message.

She whispered it to him. One of the enemy had made contact, and had an offer. It was the defector, the friend of Rlain. Venli.

Her offer to them wouldn’t work. He didn’t need more troops, and hers wouldn’t tip the battle enough. However …

It clicked.

This was the piece he needed.