Chapter 2

I first knew the Wind as a child, during days before I knew dreams. What need has a child of dreams or aspirations? They live, and love, the life that is.

—From Knights of Wind and Truth , page 3

S yl eventually trailed out of Kaladin’s room and into his family’s quarters. He lingered in the sunlight and wind, hovering, because why not? Light here was constantly replenished, and holding the tower’s new Light seemed not to push him to action the way Stormlight did. Instead, holding it was … calming.

Yet he jumped when a loud noise sounded from farther inside, a set of shockspren snapping into appearance around him, like breaking yellow triangles. When he reached the doorway, however, he found the noise was just his little brother, Oroden, clapping. Kaladin calmed his thundering heart. He had lately become more prone to overreact to loud noises—including ones that, upon reflection, were obviously nothing dangerous.

No further words came from the wind, so Kaladin hovered out into the main room, where Oroden was playing with his blocks. Syl had joined him. Though she could make herself invisible, she rarely chose to around his family. Indeed, last night they had discussed a new procedure: When she appeared with color on her clothing, like the violet on her sleeves, it meant she was visible to others. When she appeared as a uniform light blue, only he could see her.

“Gagadin!” the little boy said, pointing. “You need bocks !”

“You” in this case meant Oroden himself—who had noticed that everyone called him “you.” Kaladin smiled, and used his Light to make the blocks hover. Syl, shrinking down, hopped from block to block in the air as Oroden swatted them.

What am I doing? Kaladin thought. A contest for the fate of the world is approaching, my best friend is dead, and I’m playing blocks with my little brother?

Then in response, a familiar voice spoke from deep within him. Hold to this, Kal. Embrace it. I didn’t die so you could mope around like a wet Horneater with no razor. Unlike the wind, this didn’t seem anything mystical. Instead … well, Kaladin had known Teft long enough to anticipate what the man would have said. Even in death, a good sergeant knew his job: keep the officers pointed the right way.

“Fyl!” Oroden said, gesturing to Syl. “Fyl, come fin!” He started spinning in circles, and she joined in, twirling around him. Laughterspren, like silver minnows, appeared in the air. That was another difference in the tower lately—spren were everywhere, showing up far more frequently.

Kaladin sat on the floor amid hovering blocks, and was forced to think about his place. He wasn’t going to be Dalinar’s champion, and he wasn’t the leader of Bridge Four any longer. Sigzil went to important meetings in Kaladin’s place.

So who was he? What was he?

You are … the wind’s voice said softly. You are what I need …

He went alert. No, he was not imagining that.

His mother entered, wearing her hair tied with a kerchief, like she always had when working in Hearthstone. She settled down next to him, nudged him in the side, then handed him a bowl with some boiled lavis grain and spiced crab meat on top. Kaladin dutifully started eating. If there was a group more demanding than sergeants, it was mothers. When he’d been younger such attention had mortified him. After years without, he found he didn’t mind a little mothering.

“How are you?” Hesina asked.

“Good,” he said around a spoonful of lavis.

She studied him.

“Really,” he said. “Not great. Good. Worried about what’s coming.”

A block floated past, steaming with Towerlight. Hesina tapped it with a hesitant finger, sending it spinning through the room. “Shouldn’t those … fall?”

“Eventually, maybe?” He shrugged. “Navani has done something odd to the place. It’s warm now, the pressure equalized, and the entire city is … infused. Like a sphere.”

Water flowed on command from holes in the walls, and you could control its temperature with a gesture . Suddenly a lot of the strange basins and empty pools in the tower made sense; they had no controls, because you activated them by speaking or touching the stone.

Syl got Oroden twirling, then left him dizzy and with a few blocks as a distraction. She popped to human size again and flopped onto her back next to Kaladin and Hesina, her face coated in an approximation of sweat. He noticed a new detail: Syl’s havah was missing the long sleeve that would cover the safehand, and she wore a glove—or she’d colored her safehand white and given it a cloth texture. That wasn’t odd; Navani always wore a glove these days to leave both hands free. It surprised him that Syl was wearing one though. She’d never bothered before.

“How do small humans keep going ?” Syl said. “Where does their energy come from?”

“One of the great mysteries of the cosmere,” Hesina said. “If you think this is bad, you should have seen Kal.”

“Oooooh,” Syl said, rolling over and looking to Hesina with wide eyes, her long blue-white hair tumbling around her face. No human woman would have acted in such a … casual way in a havah. The tight dresses, while not strictly formal, weren’t designed for rolling around on the ground barefoot. Syl, however, would Syl.

“Embarrassing childhood stories?” the spren said. “Go! Talk while his mouth is full of food and he can’t interrupt you!”

“He never stopped moving,” Hesina said, leaning forward. “Except when he finally collapsed at night to sleep, giving us brief hours of respite. Each night, I would have to sing his favorite song and Lirin would have to chase him—and he could tell if Lirin was giving a halfhearted chase, and would give him an earful. It was honestly the cutest thing to see Lirin being scolded by a three-year-old.”

“I could have guessed Kaladin would be tyrannical as a child,” Syl said.

“Children are often like that, Syl,” his mother said. “Accepting only one answer to any question, because nuance is difficult and confusing.”

“Yes,” Kaladin said, scraping the last of the lavis from his bowl, “children. That’s a worldview that, obviously, solely afflicts children —never the rest of us.”

His mother gave him a hug, one arm around his shoulders. The kind that seemed to grudgingly admit that he wasn’t a little boy anymore. “Do you sometimes wish the world were a simpler place?” Hesina asked him. “That the easy answers of childhood were, in truth, the actual answers?”

“Not anymore,” he said. “Because I think the easy answers would condemn me. Condemn everyone, in fact.”

That made his mother beam, even though it was an easy thing to say. Then Hesina’s eyes got a mischievous sparkle to them. Oh, storms. What was she going to say now?

“So, you have a spren friend,” she said. “Did you ever ask her that vital question you always asked when you were little?”

He sighed, bracing himself. “And which question would that be, Mother?”

“Dungspren,” she said, poking him. “You were always so fascinated by the idea.”

“That was Tien!” Kaladin said. “Not me.”

Hesina gave him a knowing stare. Mothers. They remembered too well. Shamespren popped into existence around him, like red and white petals. Only a few, but still.

“Fine,” he said. “Maybe I was … intrigued.” He glanced at Syl, who was watching the exchange with wide eyes. “Did you … ever know any?”

“Dungspren,” she said flatly. “You’re asking the sole living Daughter of Storms—basically a princess by human terminology— this question. How much poop do I know?”

“Please, can we move on?” Kaladin said.

Unfortunately, Oroden had been listening. He patted Kaladin on the knee. “It’s okay, Gagadin,” he said in a comforting voice. “Poop goes in potty. Get a treat!”

This sent Syl into a fit of uproarious laughter, flopping onto her back again. Kaladin gave Hesina his captain’s glare—the one that could make any soldier go white. Mothers, however, ignored the chain of command. So Kaladin was saved only when his father appeared in the doorway, a large stack of papers under his arm. Hesina walked over to help.

“Dalinar’s medical corps tent layouts and current operating procedures,” Lirin explained.

“‘Dalinar,’ eh?” she said. “A few meetings, and you’re on a first-name basis with the most powerful man in the world?”

“The boy’s attitude is contagious,” Lirin said.

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with his upbringing,” Hesina replied. “We’ll instead assume that four years in the military somehow conditioned him to be flippant around lighteyes.”

“Well, I mean …” Lirin and Hesina glanced at their son.

Kaladin’s eyes were a light blue these days, never fading back to their proper dark brown. It didn’t help that although he was sitting, he was hovering an inch off the ground. Air was more comfortable than stone.

The two of them spread the pages out on the counter at the side of the room. “It’s a mess,” Lirin said. “His entire medical system needs to be rebuilt from the ground up—with training in how to properly sanitize. Apparently many of his best field medics have fallen.”

“Many of his best in all regards have fallen,” Hesina said, scanning the pages.

You have no idea, Kaladin thought. He glanced at Syl, who had sidled over to sit closer to him, still human size. Oroden was chasing blocks again, and Kaladin …

Well, despite his tension, he let himself bask in it. Family. Peace. Syl. He’d been running from disaster to disaster for so long, he’d completely forgotten this joy. Even eating stew with Bridge Four—precious moments of respite—had felt like a gasp of air when drowning. Yet here he was. Retired. Watching his brother play, sitting next to Syl, listening to his parents chat. Storms, but it had been a wild ride. He’d managed to survive.

And it wasn’t his fault that he had.

Syl rested her head—insubstantial though it was—on his shoulder as she watched the floating blocks. It was odd behavior for her, but so was her being human size.

“Why the full size?” he asked her.

“When we were in Shadesmar,” she said, “everyone treated me differently. I felt … more like a person. Less like a force of nature. I’m finding I missed that.”

“Do I treat you differently when you’re small?”

“A little.”

“Do you want me to change?”

“I want things to change and be the same all at once.” She looked to him, and probably saw that he found that completely baffling. She grinned. “Suffice it to say that I want to make it harder for certain people to ignore me.”

“Is being this size more difficult for you?”

“Yup,” she said. “But I’ve decided I want to make that effort.” She shook her head, causing her hair to swirl around. “Do not question the will of the mighty spren princess, Kaladin Stormblessed. My whims are as inscrutable as they are magnanimous.”

“You were just saying you want to be treated like a person!” he said. “Not a force of nature.”

“No,” she said. “I want to decide when I’m treated like a person. That doesn’t preclude me also wanting to be properly worshipped.” She smiled deviously. “I’ve been thinking of all kinds of things to make Lunamor do. If we ever see him again.”

Kaladin wanted to offer her some consolation, but he honestly had no idea if they’d ever see Rock again. This was a different shade of pain, distinct from the loss of Teft, distinct from the loss of Moash—or the man they’d thought Moash had been.

That brought the reality of the situation back to him, along with the strange warnings the wind had whispered. He found himself speaking. “Father, what’s the battle look like currently? A ten-day deadline. Seems like everyone might simply rest and wait it out?”

“Not so, unfortunately,” Lirin said. “I’m warned to expect heavy casualties in the next few days, as Dalinar anticipates the fighting will last right up until the deadline—in fact, he fears the enemy might push harder to capture ground in the Unclaimed Hills and the Frostlands. Apparently, per the agreement, whatever each side holds when the deadline arrives … that’s what they get to keep.”

Storms. Kaladin imagined it: fierce battles over unimportant, uninhabited land—but which both sides wanted to hold nonetheless. His heart bled for the soldiers who would die in the nine days before it all would end.

“Is this the storm?” he whispered.

Syl glanced at him, frowning. But he wasn’t talking to her.

No … that voice replied. Worse …

Worse. He shivered.

Please … the wind said. Help …

“I don’t know if I can help,” Kaladin whispered, hanging his head. “I … don’t know what I have left to give.”

I understand, it replied. If you can, come to me.

“Where?”

Listen to the Bondsmith …

He frowned. The day before, Dalinar had mentioned having a duty for Kaladin in Shinovar, involving the Herald Ishi and some “odd company.” Kaladin had already resolved to go. So perhaps he could help.

Come to me, the wind repeated. Please …

There was a highstorm tonight, and Kaladin had thought to use it—and the Stormlight it offered—to get to Shinovar. However, Dalinar had promised him more details before he left. So, taking a deep breath, Kaladin stood and stretched.

It had been wonderful to spend time with his family. To remember that peace. But even as worn out as he was, there was work for him to do yet.

“I’m sorry,” he said to his parents. “I’ve got to go. Dalinar wants me to try to find Ishi, who has apparently gone mad. Not surprising, considering how Taln and Ash are faring.”

His mother gave him an odd look, and it took him a moment to realize it was because he was speaking so familiarly of Heralds—figures of lore and religious devotion the world over. He didn’t know any of them well, but it felt natural to use their names like that. He’d stopped revering people he didn’t know the day Amaram branded him.

God or king. If they wanted his respect, they could earn it.

“Son,” Lirin said, turning away from his many sheets of paper. From the way Lirin said the word, Kaladin braced himself for some kind of lecture.

He was unprepared for Lirin to walk over and embrace him. Awkwardly, as it wasn’t Lirin’s natural state to give this sort of affection. Yet the gesture conveyed emotions Lirin found difficult to say. That he’d been wrong. That perhaps Kaladin needed to find his own way.

So Kaladin embraced him too, and let the joyspren—like blue leaves—swirl up around them.

“I wish I had fatherly advice for you,” Lirin said, “but you’ve far outpaced my understanding of life. So I guess, go and be yourself. Protect. I … I love you.”

“Stay safe,” his mother said, giving him another side hug. “Come back to us.”

He gave her a nod, then glanced at Syl. She’d changed from a havah to a Bridge Four uniform, trimmed in white and dark blue, with her hair in a ponytail like Lyn usually wore. It was strange on Syl—made her look older. She’d never truly been childlike, despite her sometimes mischievous nature—and her chosen figure had always been that of a young, but adult, woman. Girlish at times, but never a girl. In uniform, with her hair up and wearing that glove on her safehand, she seemed more mature.

It was time to go. With a final hug for his brother, Kaladin strode out to meet his destiny, feeling like he was in control for the first time in years. Deciding to take the next step, rather than being thrust into it by momentum or crisis.

And while he’d woken up feeling good, that knowledge—that sense of volition—felt great.