“Holding a blanket around herself, staring with haunted eyes at her lands, she replied, ‘Do you not see, Traveling One? If the emperor is dead, and has been all these years, then the murders we committed are not his responsibility. They are our own.’”

Kaladin sat back. Gone was the taunting, playful tone Hoid had used earlier. No more mockery. No more quick tongue intended to confuse. This story had come from within his heart, and Kaladin found he could not speak. He just sat, thinking of that island and the terrible things that had been done.

“I think…” Kaladin finally replied, licking his dry lips, “I think that is cleverness.”

Hoid raised an eyebrow, looking up from his flute.

“Being able to remember a story like that,” Kaladin said, “to tell it with such care.”

“Be wary of what you say,” Hoid said, smiling. “If all you need for cleverness is a good story, then I’ll find myself out of a job.”

“Didn’t you say you were already out of a job?”

“True. The king is finally without wit. I wonder what that makes him.”

“Um… witless?” Kaladin said.

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Hoid noted, eyes twinkling. “But I think it’s inaccurate. One can have a wit, but not a witless. What is a wit?”

“I don’t know. Some kind of spren in your head, maybe, that makes you think?”

Hoid cocked his head, then laughed. “Why, I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any.” He stood up, dusting off his black trousers.

“Is the story true?” Kaladin asked, rising too.

“Perhaps.”

“But how would we know it? Did Derethil and his men return?”

“Some stories say they did.”

“But how could they? The highstorms only blow one direction.”

“Then I guess the story is a lie.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, I said it. Fortunately, it’s the best kind of lie.”

“And what kind is that?”

“Why, the kind I tell, of course.” Hoid laughed, then kicked out the fire, grinding the last of the coals beneath his heel. It didn’t really seem there had been enough fuel to make the smoke Kaladin had seen.

“What did you put in the fire?” Kaladin said. “To make that special smoke?”

“Nothing. It was just an ordinary fire.”

“But, I saw—”

“What you saw belongs to you. A story doesn’t live until it is imagined in someone’s mind.”

“What does the story mean, then?”

“It means what you want it to mean,” Hoid said. “The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think, but to give you questions to think upon. Too often, we forget that.”

Kaladin frowned, looking westward, back toward the warcamps. They were alight now with spheres, lanterns, and candles. “It means taking responsibility,” Kaladin said. “The Uvara, they were happy to kill and murder, so long as they could blame the emperor. It wasn’t until they realized there was nobody to take the responsibility that they showed grief.”

“That’s one interpretation,” Hoid said. “A fine one, actually. So what is it you don’t want to take responsibility for?”

Kaladin started. “What?”

“People see in stories what they’re looking for, my young friend.” He reached behind his boulder, pulling out a pack and slinging it on his shoulder. “I have no answers for you. Most days, I feel I never have had any answers. I’ve come to your land to chase an old acquaintance, but I end up spending most of my time hiding from him instead.”

“You said… about me and responsibility…”

“Just an idle comment, nothing more.” He reached over, laying a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “My comments are often idle. I never can get them to do any solid work. Would that I could make my words carry stones. That would be something to see.” He held out the dark wood flute. “Here. I’ve carried her for longer than you’d believe, were I to tell you the truth. Take her for yourself.”

“But I don’t know how to play it!”

“Then learn,” Hoid said, pressing the flute into Kaladin’s hand. “When you can make the music sing back at you, then you’ve mastered it.” He began to walk away. “And take good care of that blasted apprentice of mine. He really should have let me know he was still alive. Perhaps he feared I’d come to rescue him again.”

“Apprentice?”

“Tell him I graduate him,” Hoid said, still walking. “He’s a full Worldsinger now. Don’t let him get killed. I spent far too long trying to force some sense into that brain of his.”

Sigzil, Kaladin thought. “I’ll give him the flute,” he called after Hoid.

“No you won’t,” Hoid said, turning, walking backward as he left. “It’s a gift to you, Kaladin Stormblessed. I expect you to be able to play it when next we meet!”

And with that, the storyteller turned and broke into a jog, heading off toward the warcamps. He didn’t move to go up into them, however. His shadowed figure turned to the south, as if he were intending to leave the camps. Where was he going?

Kaladin looked down at the flute in his hand. It was heavier than he had expected. What kind of wood was it? He rubbed its smooth length, thinking.

“I don’t like him,” Syl’s voice said suddenly, coming from behind. “He’s strange.”

Kaladin spun to find her on the boulder, sitting where Hoid had been a moment ago.

“Syl!” Kaladin said. “How long have you been here?”

She shrugged. “You were watching the story. I didn’t want to interrupt.” She sat with hands in her lap, looking uncomfortable.

“Syl—”

“I’m behind what is happening to you,” she said, voice soft. “I’m doing it.”

Kaladin frowned, stepping forward.

“It’s both of us,” she said. “But without me, nothing would be changing in you. I’m… taking something from you. And giving something in return. It’s the way it used to work, though I can’t remember how or when. I just know that it was.”

“I—”

“Hush,” she said. “I’m talking.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m willing to stop it, if you want,” she said. “But I would go back to being as I was before. That scares me. Floating on the wind, never remembering anything for longer than a few minutes. It’s because of this tie between us that I can think again, that I can remember what and who I am. If we end it, I lose that.”

She looked up at Kaladin, sorrowful.

He looked into those eyes, then took a deep breath. “Come,” he said, turning, walking back down the peninsula.

She flew over, becoming a ribbon of light, floating idly in the air beside his head. Soon they reached the place beneath the ridge leading to the warcamps. Kaladin turned north, toward Sadeas’s camp. The cremlings had retreated to their cracks and burrows, but many of the plants still continued to let their fronds float in the cool wind. When he passed, the grass pulled back in, looking like the fur of some black beast in the night, lit by Salas.