The Way of Kings

The echoing music faded, but once again Hoid lifted his flute just as it grew too soft to hear. The melody grew solemn. Soft, quiet, like a lament for one who had passed. And yet it was edged with mystery, occasional quick bursts, hinting at secrets.

Kaladin frowned as he watched the smoke spin, making what appeared to be a tower. Tall, thin, with an open structure at the top.

“The emperor, Derethil discovered, resided in the tower on the eastern coast of the largest island among the Uvara.”

Kaladin felt a chill. The smoke images were just from his mind, adding to the story, weren’t they? Had he really seen a tower before Hoid mentioned it?

“Derethil determined that he needed to confront this cruel emperor. What kind of monster would demand that such an obviously peaceful people kill so often and so terribly? Derethil gathered his sailors, a heroic group, and they armed themselves. The Uvara did not try to stop them, though they watched with fright as the strangers stormed the emperor’s tower.”

Hoid fell silent, and didn’t turn back to his flute. Instead, he let the music echo in the chasm. It seemed to linger this time. Long, sinister notes.

“Derethil and his men came out of the tower a short time later, carrying a desiccated corpse in fine robes and jewelry. ‘This is your emperor?’ Derethil demanded. ‘We found him in the top room, alone.’ It appeared that the man had been dead for years, but nobody had dared enter his tower. They were too frightened of him.

“When he showed the Uvara the dead body, they began to wail and weep. The entire island was cast into chaos, as the Uvara began to burn homes, riot, or fall to their knees in torment. Amazed and confused, Derethil and his men stormed the Uvara shipyards, where the Wandersail was being repaired. Their guide and caretaker joined them, and she begged to accompany them in their escape. So it was that Nafti joined the crew.

“Derethil and his men set sail, and though the winds were still, they rode the Wandersail around the whirlpool, using the momentum to spin them out and away from the islands. Long after they left, they could see the smoke rising from the ostensibly peaceful lands. They gathered on the deck, watching, and Derethil asked Nafti the reason for the terrible riots.”

Hoid fell silent, letting his words rise with the strange smoke, lost to the night.

“Well?” Kaladin demanded. “What was her response?”

“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.”