“Wit?” Kaladin finally said. “Do you … maybe have a story you could tell me?”
Wit froze, spoon in his mouth. He stared at Kaladin, lowering his hand, leaving the spoon between his lips—before eventually opening his mouth to stare slack-jawed, the spoon falling into his waiting hand.
“What?” Kaladin asked. “Why are you so surprised?”
“Well,” Wit said, recovering. “It’s simply that … I’ve been waiting for someone to actually ask. They never seem to.” He grinned, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There is an inn,” he whispered, “that you cannot find on your own. You must stumble across it on a misty street, late at night, lost and uncertain in a strange city.
“The door has a wheel on it, but the sign bears no name. If you find the place and wander inside, you’ll meet a young man behind the bar. He has no name. He cannot tell it to you, should he want to—it’s been taken from him. But he’ll know you, as he knows everyone who enters the inn. He’ll listen to everything you want to tell him—and you will want to talk to him. And if you ask him for a story, he’ll share one. Like he shared with me. I will now share it with you.”
“All right…” Kaladin said.
“Hush. This isn’t the part where you talk,” Wit said. He settled in, then turned his hand to the side with a curt gesture, palm up. A Cryptic appeared beside him, forming as if from mist. This one wore a stiff robe like they did in Shadesmar, the head a lacy and intricate pattern somehow more … fine and graceful than that of Shallan’s Pattern.
The Cryptic waved eagerly. Kaladin had heard that Wit was a Lightweaver now, but he hadn’t been surprised. He felt he’d seen Wit Lightweave long ago. Regardless, he didn’t act like he was in one of the Radiant orders. He was just … well, Wit.
“This story,” Wit said, “is a meaningless one. You must not search for a moral. It isn’t that kind of story, you see. It’s the other kind of story.”
The Cryptic held up a flute, and Kaladin recognized it. “Your flute!” he said. “You found it?”
“This is a dream, idiot,” Wit said. “It’s not real.”
“Oh,” Kaladin said. “Right.”
“I’m real!” the Cryptic said with a musical, feminine voice. “Not imaginary at all! Unfortunately, I am irrational! Ha ha!” She began to play the flute, moving her fingers along it—and while soft music came out, Kaladin wasn’t certain what she was doing to produce the sounds. She didn’t have lips.
“This story,” Wit said, “is called ‘The Dog and the Dragon.’”
“The … what and the what?” Kaladin said. “Or is this not the part where I speak yet?”
“You people,” Wit said. “A dog is a hound, like an axehound.” He held up his palm, and a creature appeared in it, four-legged and furry, like a mink—only larger, and with a different face shape.
“It is funny, you can’t realize,” Wit said. “Humans will selectively breed for the same traits regardless of the planet they’re on. But you can’t be amazed at the convergent examples of domestication across the cosmere. You can’t know any of this, because you live on a giant ball of rock full of slime where everything is wet and cold all the time. This is a dog, Kaladin. They’re fluffy and loyal and wonderful. This, on the other hand, is a dragon.”
A large beast appeared in his other hand, like a chasmfiend—except with enormous outstretched wings and only four legs. It was a brilliant pearlescent color, with silver running along the contours of its body. It also had smaller chitinous bits than a chasmfiend—in fact, its body was covered with little pieces of carapace that looked smooth to the touch. It stood proud, with a prominent chest and a regal bearing.
“I know of just one on Roshar,” Wit noted, “and she prefers to hide her true form. This story isn’t about her, however, or any of the dragons I’ve met. In fact, the dragon is barely in the story, and I’d kindly ask you not to complain about that part, because there’s really nothing I can do about it and you’ll only annoy Design.”
The Cryptic waved again. “I get annoyed easily!” she said. “It’s endearing.”
“No it’s not,” Wit said.
“It’s endearing!” Design said. “To everyone but him! I drew up a proof of it!” The music continued playing as she spoke, and the way she moved her fingers on the flute seemed completely random.
“One day, the dog saw the dragon flying overhead,” Wit continued, sending the illusory dragon soaring above his hand.
Kaladin was glad for the story. Anything to keep his attention off the hateful wind, which he could faintly hear outside, howling as if eager to rush into the bubble of light and assault him.
“The dog marveled,” Wit said, “as one might expect. He had never seen anything so majestic or grand. The dragon soared in the sky, shimmering with iridescent colors in the sunlight. When it curved around and passed above the dog, it called out a mighty challenge, demanding in the human tongue that all acknowledge its beauty.
“The dog watched this from atop a hill. Now, he wasn’t particularly large, even for a dog. He was white, with brown spots and floppy ears. Not of any specific breed or lineage, and small enough that the other dogs often mocked him. He was a common variety of a common species of a common animal that most people would rightfully ignore.
“But when this dog stared at the dragon and heard the mighty boast, he came to a realization. Today, he had encountered something he’d always wished for but never known. Today he’d seen perfection, and had been presented with a goal. From today, nothing else mattered.
“He was going to become a dragon.”
“Hint,” Design whispered to Kaladin, “that’s impossible. A dog can’t become a dragon.”
“Design!” Wit said, turning on her. “What did I tell you about spoiling the ending of stories!”
“Something stupid, so I forgot it!” she said, her pattern bursting outward like a blooming flower.
“Don’t spoil stories!” Wit said.
“That’s stupid. The story is really long. He needs to hear the ending so he’ll know it’s worth listening all the way.”
“That’s not how this works,” Wit said. “It needs drama. Suspense. Surprise.”
“Surprises are dumb,” she said. “He should be informed if a product is good or not before being asked to commit. Would you like a similar surprise at the market? Oh, you can’t buy a specific food. You have to carry a sack home, cut it open, then find out what you bought. Drama. Suspense!”
Wit gave Kaladin a beleaguered look. “I have bonded,” he said, “a literal monster.” He made a flourish, and a Lightweaving appeared between them again, showing the dog on a hilltop covered in grass that looked dead, since it didn’t move. The dog was staring upward at the dragon, which was growing smaller and smaller as it flew away.
“The dog,” Wit continued, “sat upon that hilltop through an entire night and day, staring. Thinking. Dreaming. Finally, he returned to the farm where he lived among others of his kind. These farm dogs all had jobs, chasing livestock or guarding the perimeter, but he—as the smallest—was seldom given any duty. Perhaps to another this would be liberating. To him it had always been humiliating.
“As any problem to overcome is merely a set of smaller problems to overcome in a sequence, he divided his goal of becoming a dragon into three steps. First, he would find a way to have colorful scales like the dragon. Second, he would learn to speak the language of men like the dragon. Third, he would learn to fly like the dragon.”
Wit made the scene unfold in front of Kaladin. A colorful land, with thick green grass that wasn’t dead after all—it simply didn’t move except in the wind. Creatures unlike any Kaladin had ever seen, furry and strange. Exotic.
The little dog walked into a wooden structure—a barn, though it hadn’t been built with stone on the east side to withstand storms. It barely looked waterproof. How would they keep the grain from spoiling? Kaladin cocked his head at this oddity as the dog encountered a tall man in work clot
hing sorting through bags of seeds.
“The dog chose the scales first,” Wit continued, accompanied by the quiet flute music, “as it seemed the easiest, and he wanted to begin his transformation with an early victory. He knew the farmer owned many seeds in a variety of colors, and they were the shape of little scales. Because he was not a thief, the dog did not take these—but he asked the other animals where the farmer obtained new ones.
“It turns out, the farmer could make seeds by putting them in the ground, waiting for plants to grow, then taking more seeds from the stalks. Knowing this, the dog borrowed some seeds and did the same, accompanying the farmer’s eldest son on his daily work. As the youth worked, the dog moved alongside him, digging holes for seeds with his paws and planting them carefully with his mouth.”
It was an amusing scene, watching the dog work. Not only because the animal did all this with feet and snout—but because the ground parted when the dog pawed at it. It wasn’t made of stone, but something else.
“This is in Shinovar, isn’t it?” Kaladin asked. “Sigzil told me about ground like that.”
“Hush,” Wit said. “This isn’t the part where you talk. The farmer’s eldest son found the dog’s actions quite amusing—then incredible as the dog went out each day, gripping a watering can in his teeth. The little dog watered each seed, just as the farmer did. He learned to weed and fertilize. And eventually the dog was rewarded with his own small crop of colorful seeds.
“After replacing what he’d borrowed from the farmer, the dog got himself wet and rolled in his seeds, sticking them all over his body. He then presented himself to the other dogs.
“‘Do you admire my wonderful new scales?’ he asked his fellow animals. ‘Do I not look like a dragon?’
“They, in turn, laughed at him. ‘Those are not scales!’ they said. ‘You look stupid and silly. Go back to being a dog.’”
Kaladin put a spoonful of stew into his mouth, staring at the illusion. The way the colors worked was mesmerizing, though he had to admit the dog did look silly covered in seeds.
“The dog slunk away, feeling foolish and hurt. He had failed at his first task, to have scales like a dragon. The dog, however, was not daunted. Surely if he could speak with the grand voice of a dragon, they would all see. And so, the dog spent his free time watching the children of the farmer. There were three. The eldest son, who helped in the fields. The middle daughter, who helped with the animals, and the toddler—who was too young to help, but was learning to speak.”
Wit made the family appear, working in the yard—the farmer’s wife, who was taller than the farmer. A youth, lanky and assiduous. A daughter who would someday share her mother’s height. A baby who toddled around the yard, tended by them all as they did their chores.
“This,” Wit noted, “is almost too easy.”
“Too easy?” Kaladin asked, absently taking another bite of stew.
“For years, I’ve had to make do with hints of illusions. Suggesting scenes. Leaving most to the imagination. Now, having the power to do more, I find it less satisfying.
“Anyway, the dog figured that the best way to learn the language of men was to study their youngest child. So the dog played with the baby, stayed with him, and listened as he began to form words. The dog played with the daughter too, helped her with yard work. He soon found he could understand her, if he tried hard. But he couldn’t form words.
“He tried so hard to speak as they did, but his mouth could not make that kind of speech. His tongue did not work like a human tongue. Eventually, while watching the tall and serious daughter, he noticed she could make the words of humans on paper.
“The dog was overjoyed by this. It was a way to speak without having a human tongue! The dog joined her at the table where she studied, inspecting the letters as she made them. He failed many times, but eventually learned to scratch the letters in the dirt himself.
“The farmer and his family thought this an amazing trick. The dog was sure he had found a way to prove he was becoming a dragon. He returned to the other dogs in the field and showed them his writing ability by writing their names in the dirt.
“They, however, could not read the words. When the dog explained what writing was, they laughed. ‘This is not the loud and majestic voice of a dragon!’ the dogs said. ‘This is speaking so quietly, nobody can hear it! You look silly and stupid. Go back to being a dog.’
“They left the dog to stare at his writing as rain began to fall, washing the words away. He realized they were correct. He had failed to speak with the proud and powerful voice of the dragon.”
The image of the dog in the rain felt far too familiar to Kaladin. Far too personal.
“But there was still hope,” Wit said. “If the dog could just fly. If he could achieve this feat, the dogs would have to acknowledge his transformation.
“This task seemed even harder than the previous two. However, the dog had seen a curious device in the barn. The farmer would tie bales of hay with a rope, then raise or lower them using a pulley in the rafters.
“This was essentially flying, was it not? The bales of hay soared in the air. And so, the dog practiced pulling on the rope himself, and learned the mechanics of the device. He found that the pulley could be balanced with a weight on the other side, which made the bales of hay lower slowly and safely.
“The dog took his leash and tied it around him to make a harness, like the ones that wrapped up the hay. Then he tied a sack slightly lighter than he was to the rope, creating a weight to balance him. After using his mouth to tie the rope to his harness, he climbed to the top of the barn’s loft, and called for the other dogs to come in. When they arrived, he leaped gracefully off the loft.
“It worked! The dog lowered down slowly, striking a magnificent pose in the air. He was flying! He soared like the dragon had! He felt the air around him, and knew the sensation of being up high, with everything below him. When he landed, he felt so proud and so free.
“Then the other dogs laughed the loudest they had ever laughed. ‘That is not flying like a dragon!’ they said. ‘You fell slowly. You looked so stupid and silly. Go back to being a dog.’
“This, at long last, crushed the dog’s hopes. He realized the truth. A dog like him simply could not become a dragon. He was too small, too quiet, too silly.”
Frankly, the sight of the dog being lowered on the rope had looked a bit silly. “They were right,” Kaladin said. “That wasn’t flying.”
Wit nodded.
“Oh, is this the place where I talk?” Kaladin said.
“If you wish.”
“I don’t wish. Get on with the story.”
Wit grinned, then leaned forward, waving in the air and making the sounds of shouting come from a distant part of the illusion, not yet visible. “What was that? The dog looked up, confused. He heard noises. Sudden shouting? Yells of panic?
“The dog raced out of the barn to find the farmer and his family huddled around the small farmyard well, which was barely wide enough for the bucket. The dog put his paws up on the edge of the well and looked down. Far below, in the deep darkness of the hole, he heard crying and splashing.”
Kaladin leaned forward, staring into the darkness. A pitiful, gurgling cry was barely audible over the splashing.
“The littlest child of the farmer and his wife had fallen into the well,” Wit whispered, “and was drowning. The family screamed and wept. There was nothing to be done. Or … was there?
“In a flash, the dog knew what to do. He bit the bucket off the well’s rope, then had the eldest son tie the rope to his harness. He wrote ‘lower me’ in the dirt, then hopped up onto the rim of the well. Finally, he threw himself into the well as the farmer grabbed the crank.
“Lowered down on this rope, the dog ‘flew’ into the darkness. He found the baby all the way underwater, but shoved his snout in and took hold of the baby’s clothing with his teeth. A short time later, when the family pulled him back up, the dog appeared holding
the littlest child: wet, crying, but very much alive.
“That night, the family set a place for the little dog at their table and gave him a sweater to keep him warm, his name written across the front with letters he could read. They served a feast with food the dog had helped grow. They gave him some of the cake celebrating the birthday of the child whose life he had saved.
“That night, it rained on the other dogs, who slept outside in the cold barn, which leaked. But the little dog snuggled into a warm bed beside the fire, hugged by the farmer’s children, his belly full. And as he did, the dog sadly thought to himself, ‘I could not become a dragon. I am an utter and complete failure.’
“The end.”
Wit clapped his hands, and the images vanished. He gave a seated bow. Design lowered her flute and flared out her pattern again, as if to give her own bow.
Then Wit picked up his bowl of stew and continued eating.
“Wait,” Kaladin said, standing. “That’s it?”
“Did you miss ‘the end’ at the end?” Design said. “It indicates that is the end.”
“What kind of ending is that?” Kaladin said. “The dog decides he’s a failure?”
“Endings are an art,” Wit said loftily. “A precise and unquestionable art, bridgeman. Yes, that is the ending.”
“Why did you tell me this?” Kaladin demanded.
“You asked for a story.”
“I wanted a useful story!” he said, waving his hand. “Like the story of the emperor on the island, or of Fleet who kept running.”
“You didn’t specify that,” Wit said. “You said you wanted a story. I provided one. That is all.”
“That’s the wrong ending,” Kaladin said. “That dog was incredible. He learned to write. How many animals can write, on any world?”
“Not many, I should say,” Wit noted.
“He learned to farm and to use tools,” Kaladin said. “He saved a child’s life. That dog is a storming hero.”
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