Wind and Truth (The Stormlight Archive, #5)

by Brandon Sanderson

“You’re not going to teach him to read it, are you?” “What if I did?” Syl said, going up on her tiptoes and projecting confidence. “Dalinar reads.” “Brightlord Dalinar is a holy man.” “Kaladin’s holy,” Syl said. “Tell her.” “I’m bonded to a piece of a god,” he said. “And she won’t let me forget it.” “See?” Syl said. The woman sighed again. “Still doesn’t justify taking my books into the field…” “What is it?” Kaladin said, flipping through the pages. “The Way of Kings,” Syl said. “Your own copy! I got it for you, since I’m your scribe.” He opened his mouth to complain about the weight, that his rucksack was already packed. Then caught sight of the enthusiasm in her expression. She’d had this idea—of scribing for him—since before the attack on Urithiru. Confronted by her excited smile, his thoughts spun on their heel and did an about-face. “That’s wonderful,” he said. “Thank you.”

Syl bounced up and down eagerly, ignoring the book-quartermaster and her severe gaze. Timid at first, Syl reached and—with effort—picked up one of the pens. Before that moment, the heaviest thing Kaladin had seen Syl carry on her own was one solitary leaf. Today, full sized, she scrunched up her face and concentrated—then deliberately heaved the pen into the air, like she was lifting a training weight. Storms, Kaladin thought, impressed as she raised the pen and dipped it, each motion slow and careful. She placed it onto the page and crafted a single letter. Then she set the pen back down. “Very good,” the book-quartermaster said. “You now display the skill of a four-year-old.” Syl wilted, and Kaladin immediately felt a jolt. His annoyance at this woman simmered into something hotter. He opened his mouth, a dozen different options springing to mind. She wanted a scene? Oh, he could make a scene.

Kaladin took the paper Syl had written on and folded it, then tucked it in his jacket pocket. “I’m keeping this,” he said. “It’s wonderful.” “Now,” Syl said, “I can actually be your scribe.” She glanced at the paper. “So long as you carry the materials…” He smiled, packing them—and her book—into his ruck. He slung it over both shoulders onto his back, then the two headed out. “I assume,” Kaladin said under his breath, “most book-quartermasters aren’t so terrible.” “Wait, what did you call her?” “Um … book-quartermaster? Who works at the scribes’ supply depot?” “The head librarian,” she said, “at the library?” “Oh, right. Yeah, that’s the word.” “You are absolutely adorable sometimes.”

“I understand,” he said softly. “It can be both right and difficult at once.” “Yeah,” she said. “We could…” His stomach twisted. “We could find you another knight, Syl. One worthy of you.” “Kaladin Stormblessed,” she said, glaring, lifting in the air to be at eye level with him. In her full-sized form, she was still smaller than he was, but somehow her ability to intimidate was not related to her size. “Don’t you dare say things like that.”

“Check out their triage and medical tents,” Adolin suggested. “Make sure we don’t need to send for any supplies before the Oathgate shuts down?” “Excellent idea,” she said. So cold, Maya thought. She’s not a good match for you. I’m surprised you considered it. I considered a lot of women, Adolin thought back. There wasn’t a lot else to do on the Shattered Plains. I courted basically everyone eligible and at least halfway interested. Wait, wait, Maya thought, laughing—something that was so good to hear from her. Adolin. Were you a slut? He about choked as she said it, but then smiled. She said it in the same exaggerated way some of his soldier friends did, good-naturedly laughing over one another’s failings. I, he thought to her, was not a slut. A trollop at worst. Besides, I find that a wise commander investigates every strategy, so that he knows his options. Of course, she thought. You are correct. A wise soldier knows all the best positions.

Kaladin looked back over the people, and felt the wind blow across him—something he couldn’t remember feeling since they’d arrived at the camp. It whispered to him. We need you. “I … I believe you,” he whispered back. “There’s something for me here. Not as important as the battle my friends fight in, but still relevant.” No, not as important, the Wind said. More important. Far, far more important … “Kaladin?” Szeth asked. “What are you saying?” “I’m talking to the Wind, Szeth. She wants me here. Which is the next monastery?” “Willshaper,” he said, pointing into the distance. “Shall we begin?” Kaladin nodded, feeling fully invested in this mission for the first time since Dalinar had given him the order.

“Yesterday, I did as Nale demanded,” Szeth continued. “I went in to kill, and won the day, but only with Syl’s help. Moss was a friend once. Now he is another corpse I must carry.” Kaladin nodded again. “I hate this,” Szeth said, “but I have made promises. Oaths. I am doing good for this land; I can feel it. I should carry on, regardless of the cost to me.” Kaladin finished cutting his longroots. Then he played the flute while the stew simmered, because Szeth asked him to, and because it annoyed Nale. Szeth stayed, even when Nale came over to glower. The Herald retreated again when Kaladin handed Szeth a bowl, and some of the man’s pain appeared to melt off his face as he ate. Between bites, Szeth said, “I would … welcome your thoughts, Kaladin Stormblessed.” The mythical power of stew. Kaladin smiled, taking a bite, and realized something. Back in Hearthstone as a child, he had yearned to train in the spear and learn how to fight. Yet the best moments of his life, and the most important connections he’d made, hadn’t come from his training in the spear. They had come from a different kind of training.

The highspren stopped. “I deserve to be happy.” He turned to regard them. “What if being happy means … doing things differently from other spren?” “You’ll have to decide,” Kaladin said, getting another spoonful of stew. “You’re supposed to give me the answers!” “You wanted my therapy,” Kaladin said. “This is how it goes. I don’t give answers. I just…” … give questions to think upon? Damnation. Wit, you crafty bastard. “You just what?” 12124 asked. “I just listen,” Kaladin said.

“Listen. Remember. The question is not whether you will love, hurt, dream, and die. It is what you will love, why you will hurt, when you will dream, and how you will die. This is your choice. You cannot pick the destination, only the path.”

“All men have the same ultimate destination, Dalinar. But we are not creatures of destinations. It is the journey that shapes us. Our callused feet. Your callused feet. Our backs strong from carrying the weight of our travels. Your back strong from carrying the weight of your travels. Our eyes open. Your. Eyes. Open. You kept the pain, Dalinar. Remember that. For the substance of our existence is not in the achievement, but in the method…”

Ishar moved with a crash of speed. A pop, and a rush, and suddenly he was there with a hand at Kaladin’s throat. “I will crush you. You will fall here, Stormblessed. You cannot help. You cannot stop me. Everyone you love will die for this insolence. Doesn’t that terrify you?” “Yes,” Kaladin admitted. The darkness wanted him to see himself failing. It tried to show him. Except Kaladin had learned, and Words formed without him realizing that he’d begun to know them. The Words that both soldier and surgeon needed to learn eventually. Two halves of one man. A singular lesson. A step forward from what he’d learned in storm and tempest two weeks ago, Words said in agony. This was a counterpoint, learned with a peace that flowed through him and held off the darkness. Quiet Words. Reminiscent of what Teft had learned, and his friend’s wisdom helped now. Kaladin rested his hand comfortingly on Ishar’s shoulder, ignoring the hand at his throat, and spoke them. “I will protect myself, so that I may continue to protect others.”