Oathbringer: Book Three of the Stormlight Archive

“I understand,” Wit said. He took the rags and cord he’d worked with earlier, forming them into the shape of a little doll. “The answer to the question has been bothering me for some time.”

The little face poked out again, looking at the doll. “The question?”

“I asked it earlier,” Wit said. “You couldn’t hear. Do you know the answer?”

“You’re weird.”

“Right answer, but wrong question.” He walked the little doll along the broken street.

“For me?” the girl whispered.

“I need to leave the city,” he said. “And I can’t take her with me. Someone needs to care for her.”

A grimy hand reached toward the doll, but Wit pulled it back. “She’s afraid of the darkness. You’ve got to keep her in the light.”

The hand vanished into the shadows. “I can’t leave Mama.”

“That’s too bad,” Wit said. He raised the doll to his lips, then whispered a choice set of words.

When he set it down, it started to walk on its own. A soft gasp sounded inside the shadows. The little doll toddled toward the street. Step by step by step …

The girl, maybe four years old, finally emerged from the shadows and ran to get the doll. Wit stood and dusted off his coat, which was now grey. The girl hugged the patchwork creation, and he picked her up, turning away from the broken building—and the bones of a leg sticking from the rubble just inside.

He carried the girl back to the square, then quietly pushed the empty cradle away from Kheni and knelt before her. “I think, in answer to my question … I think it only takes one.”

She blinked, then focused on the child in his arms.

“I have to leave the city,” Wit said. “And someone needs to take care of her.”

He waited until, at long last, Kheni held out her arms. Wit put the child into them, then rose. Kheni’s husband took him by the arm, smiling. “Can you not stay a little longer?”

“I should think you are the first to ever ask me that, Cob,” Wit said. “And in truth, the sentiment frightens me.” He hesitated, then leaned down and touched the doll in the child’s hands. “Forget what I told you before,” he whispered. “Instead, take care of her.”

He turned and started up the steps toward the palace.

He adopted the act as he walked. The twitch of madness, the shuffle to his step. He squinted one eye and hunched over, changed his breathing to come raggedly, with occasional sharp intakes. He muttered to himself, and exposed his teeth—but not the one that was missing, for that was impossible.

He passed into the shadow of the palace, and the sentry hovering in the air nearby, wind rippling her long clothing. Vatwha was her name. Thousands of years ago, he’d shared a dance with her. Like all the others, she’d later been trained to watch for him.

But not well enough. As he passed underneath, she gave him the barest of glances. He decided not to take that as an insult, as it was what he wanted. He needed to be soup so bland, it was water. What a conundrum. In this case, his art was best when ignored.

Perhaps he would need to revise his philosophy.

He passed the sentry post, and wondered if anyone else thought it irregular that the Fused spent so much time here near this fallen section of the palace. Did anyone wonder why they worked so hard, clearing blocks, breaking down walls?

It was good to know that his heart could still flutter at a performance. He ducked in close to the work project, and a pair of more mundane singer guards cursed at him to move on toward the gardens, with the other beggars. He bowed several times, then tried to sell them some trinkets from his pocket.

One shoved him away, and so he acted panicked, scrambling past them and up a ramp into the work project itself. Nearby, some workers broke rocks, and a patch of blood stained the ground. The two singer guards shouted at him to get out. Wit adopted a frightened look, and hurried to obey, but tripped himself so he fell against the wall of the palace—a portion that was still standing.

“Look,” he whispered to the wall, “you don’t have many choices right now.”

Above, the Fused turned to look at him.

“I know you’d rather have someone else,” Wit said, “but it isn’t the time to be picky. I’m certain now that the reason I’m in the city is to find you.”

The two singer guards approached, one bowing apologetically to the Fused in the air. They still didn’t realize that sort of behavior would not impress the ancient singers.

“It’s either go with me now,” Wit said to the wall, “or wait it out and get captured. I honestly don’t even know if you’ve the mind to listen. But if you do, know this: I will give you truths. And I know some juicy ones.”

The guards reached him. Wit pushed against them, slamming himself against the wall again.

Something slipped from one of the cracks in the wall. A moving Pattern that dimpled the stone. It crossed to his hand, which he tucked into his rags as the guards seized him under the arms and hauled him out into the gardens, then tossed him among the beggars there.

Once they were gone, Wit rolled over and looked at the Pattern that now covered his palm. It seemed to be trembling.

“Life before death, little one,” Wit whispered.