Chapter 110

No general can control a battlefield. He must instead learn to ride it like one does an untamed beast. But you can practice and prepare for that eventuality.

— Proverbs for Towers and War, Zenaz, date unknown

S uch an incongruous sound. A flute, the song Kaladin had been practicing, drifting in the air. Frail.

The Wind, he realized, was trying to help the best she could. With her voice.

“I return your song to you, Kaladin,” she whispered. “As I once returned it to Cephandrius.”

Nale stopped and looked around, frowning. “That song again …” he said. “That rhythm …”

I can’t win this battle with a spear, Kaladin thought. Any more than I could win it with logic. But that song … that song moved something in Kaladin. It always had.

He took something from his pack lying beside him in a heap by the wall, then heaved to his feet and fell into a stance. As Nale raised his Blade, Kaladin raised his own hands holding not a sword or spear—but a simple wooden flute.

“There’s a story you need to hear,” Kaladin said. “It is the story of the—”

Nale punched him in the stomach, again moving at inhuman speed, and bones snapped. Kaladin gasped, pain blinding his vision, as he felt his insides crunch. He fell to his knees, and the flute slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.

Szeth caught Kaladin and held out a pouch of spheres. “Take it! This isn’t a fight any longer. It’s an execution.”

In his pain, Kaladin drew in the Stormlight, though he couldn’t have said if it was a conscious choice or the response of a drowning man breaking the surface for a frantic gasp. That began to heal him, and his vision recovered, but as he reached for more, someone else got there first. Nale strode past, and Light streamed from the spheres in Szeth’s possession—from pouches by the walls as well, from gemstones Kaladin hadn’t remembered, tucked into the bottom of his pack. Everything.

It seemed to favor Nale, streaming to him instead of Kaladin. The Herald drew it in with arms outstretched—then let go. Allowing a puff of radiance to shimmer up into the air and vanish.

“No Stormlight,” Nale said calmly. “That was the agreement.” He stepped forward and slammed a booted heel on the flute, crunching the wood, shattering it.

Kaladin cried out in dismay, reaching for the broken flute. Nale moved again, pushing Szeth aside with enough force to throw him into the wall. Kaladin had been healed enough to see clearly, though his Stormlight gave out. Without it, the Honorblades couldn’t grant Surges, and Nightblood would consume their souls in a flash if drawn.

Lying on the ground, Kaladin stretched his fingers toward the broken flute again, tears in his eyes.

Kaladin, Syl said, I don’t understand why the flute matters.

“Nale knows this song,” Kaladin whispered. “He knows this story. He understands, deep down, what it means to care for people more than rules. I know it, Syl. We have to remind him. We have to make him remember.”

Kaladin reached out, and something silvery formed in his hand from Radiant mist. A flute made all of metal.

This is dangerous though! Syl said. Maybe we should run.

But the Wind kept returning his music to him, in the distance. Halting, faulty notes. Echoes from when he’d practiced. Kaladin, panting, heaved to his feet and backed away from Nale.

The Herald was ignoring him, continuing to walk with his head cocked. Listening. “That song … it’s the song you played. Those notes … those are the notes that led us to Roshar all those millennia ago …”

Wind blew through the broken monastery, a soft wind, a teasing wind. It touched the flute and a quiet note sounded, vibrating the instrument in Kaladin’s hand. The other notes outside grew stronger, overlapping one another, as if five or six flutists were playing and not one.

Nale moved to one of the arrow-slit windows and peered out. “What is this? What army comes to your aid?” He glanced back at Kaladin. “Nothing. Just hills …” He narrowed his eyes. “Offworlder magic. You’ve been talking to Midius. His illusions are meaningless against one who knows them for the falsehoods they are, Stormblessed.”

Nale spun and raised his sword in two hands, point toward Kaladin. In return, Kaladin put the flute to his lips, and blew a few bars of the melody he’d been practicing. This flute seemed more natural to his fingers and lips. Simple though the tune was, he felt enormous pride at the lack of mistakes.

He raised his head from the flute, looked Nale—who had stopped again—in the eyes. “This story is about Derethil and the Wandersail. ”

Nale’s calmness cracked as he gritted his teeth and surged forward, but his strange speed failed him. He stumbled. Kaladin was able to back up to escape Nale’s reach. The Wind almost seemed to lift him as he hopped over the pile of rubble that had been the monastery chimney.

Landing on the other side, Kaladin shouted, “Have you heard it? The story of how Derethil and his crew made their way to a hidden island in the Endless Ocean? A land where everything appeared so perfect at first?”

Nale slowed. “I do not pay attention to made-up stories.”

“Pity,” Kaladin said. “They have proven to be some of the most real things in my life.” He presented the flute, which the Wind played in his hand. “Derethil and his crew set out to cross the ocean and find out what was on the other side. Some say they sought the place the Voidbringers were born. Others say Derethil sought the Origin itself, that mythical place where storms begin and Light is most powerful.

“I do not know the ultimate result of their voyage, but I do know that they wrecked on an island called Uvala, near a mighty whirlpool. A tall people lived there, who wore shells in their hair unlike any that grew on Roshar. They cared for Derethil and his crew. Everything seemed so perfect. So ideal. No need for guards, or police, or anything of the sort.”

Nale growled, a bit of true emotion, but again stopped in place as the music outside—sounding like a dozen flutes now—increased in volume. Echoes of Kaladin’s practice overlapping, forming a cohesive song. Nale looked one way, then the other.

“Why did you become a Herald, Nale?” Kaladin asked softly. “Do you remember? Can you remember how you felt ?”

“Emotion can’t be trusted!”

“Is it your emotions you can’t trust,” Kaladin said, “or your mind?”

“I … I used to see clearly …” he said, tipping his head back. “I thought I did … then my mind changed …”

“Storms,” Kaladin whispered. “Is that why you started trusting only in the law? You felt yourself slipping, didn’t you? You knew your logic failed. You knew you were getting worse, so you fixated on something external, hoping it would be a guiding light as your own mind deteriorated.”

Nale growled, glaring at him. “The law is perfect.”

Kaladin pointed the flute at him, and spoke in rhythm to the music. “One day, on this perfect island, Derethil saw something unnerving. A serving girl made a mistake. She broke some goblets. The other people of the island attacked her and killed her brutally. Do you know why?”

“It was obviously the law,” Nale growled.

“The law of the emperor.”

“The law must be obeyed,” Nale said, right fist toward Kaladin—his sword as if forgotten in his other hand. “Stop fleeing your destiny, Stormblessed!”

Kaladin rounded Nale, his chest still aching from the hit. “Do you remember finding people trapped in rubble? Darkness, followed by light, as you—smothered in ash and blood—worked to save those trapped beneath the wreckage?”

“That happened many times,” Nale said. “Too many times.”

“Do you remember,” Kaladin continued, “a child who cowered in a corner as figures with glowing red eyes broke down the doorway … and was saved as you came back seeking those who had been left behind?”

“I …” Nale cocked his head to the music.

“Gratitude,” Kaladin said. “Do you remember their gratitude as you stood before the weak and ignored, blood dripping down your arm as you held out your sword … like a banner …”

“You will not have them,” Nale whispered. He looked to Kaladin, and there were tears at the corners of his eyes. “I woke one day … this must have been a thousand years ago or more … and I realized I’d hurt someone by accident. Out of irritation. I thought … I’m losing it. Losing myself.”

“So you sought a way to control your actions.”

“I turned to the law,” Nale whispered. “To force myself to hold on to the person I wanted to be. Because … I couldn’t trust my mind anymore …”

Kaladin had positioned himself with his back to the large gates at the front of the chamber. Here he stopped, brandishing the flute, with the Wind blowing through it.

“I can’t go back!” Nale shouted. But he seemed … afraid of Kaladin. He retreated as he spoke, his words and tone defiant. “I can’t trust you, or what I see, or what I think! There is only one ANSWER. I must follow the law!”

“Derethil and his men,” Kaladin said, accompanied by the flute playing in his fingers, “discovered more instances of brutality from the people of Uvala. Extreme violence in response to simple acts! They demanded answers, and always were told it was the will of the emperor!” Kaladin’s voice rose to a shout. “Finally, Derethil and his men sought out the emperor who would create such terrible laws! They stormed the tower to demand accountability!”

Nale snarled, then strode to the side of the room and grabbed the still-dazed Szeth—who had been listening to the music in awe—from next to the wall. Nale placed his Shardblade to Szeth’s throat.

“Come fight me!” Nale said.

The music outside softened. The flute in his fingers became as quiet as a whisper. It felt anticipatory to Kaladin, the held breath before a storm.

“Nale,” Kaladin said, “is this what you’ve become?”

The Herald paused. He glanced at Szeth, and seemed to see him in a new light. He dropped Szeth and again put his hand to his chest.

Then he looked to Kaladin, and his calm shattered, emotion streaking his face with lines of anger as he shouted, “This is your fault! It all made sense before you!” He started toward Kaladin again, sword held high. “ You are my flaw! You are the one I let slip past, who started the events that ruined it all! You are the cause for ALL of this!”

Kaladin raised his arms to the sides.

Wind erupted through the gates of the monastery, slamming the doors open, carrying with it music. An overwhelming stampede of sound, a thousand flutes playing at once. Every practice Kaladin had done, captured by the Wind and belted out in a tide of song.

It hit Nale with a physical force. The Herald leaned back and faltered, eyes going wide, as if staring into a bright, all-consuming light.

“What did they find!” Kaladin shouted at him. “What did they find in the top of the tower, Nale?”

The man whimpered and stepped back.

“ WHAT WAS IN THE TOWER? ” Kaladin bellowed.

“ NOTHING! ” Nale yelled back, his face a mask of pain, tears streaming down his cheeks. “There was nothing in the tower! There was …” Nale fell to his knees. “There was nothing! He’s dead.”

Nale dropped his Blade. He looked at his hands, then at Kaladin as the music drifted away, the tide becoming a stream.

“Honor is … is dead,” Nale whispered. “Jezrien is … is gone. Ishar is … as good … as good as dead too …”

“Derethil learned a lesson that day—one I’ve learned, and you must learn. Even if an emperor makes the laws, when we uphold them, the laws become ours. The responsibility ours. And every action those people took … that blood was on their hands.”

Nale wept openly.

“Why,” Kaladin repeated, “did you become a Herald, Nale?”

The bald man looked up at him, seeming a completely different person from moments ago. “I feared the others, highborn save Taln, would forget the little people of the lands. I knew it, Kaladin. I fought on their behalf, for centuries. Oh … my god … What has happened to me? What has become of me?” He blinked through the tears. “The law cannot shelter me. Why? Why can’t I see right anymore? Do you think … do you think that black sword could destroy me?”

Kaladin gripped his flute tighter and stood above the pitiful man kneeling on the ground. Demigod. Broken. A moment later, Szeth stumbled up beside him.

Then, Szeth reached a trembling hand out to Nale. “We can help you,” he said softly. “We can’t make it all better, but we can help. Right, Kaladin?”

Even those I hate, Kaladin thought. “Yes, we can help, Nale. We will help.”

Nale broke down weeping as he took Szeth’s hand, but then stayed on his knees—clinging to it, wetting the broken ground of the monastery with his tears. Two figures appeared. Syl on one side, 12124 on the other.

The final figure, Nale’s spren, emerged as a rip in the sky nearby. Not in the shape of a person. Then it streaked off and vanished.