Just as the echoes faded below, Hoid began to play again, picking up the rhythm. He actually seemed to continue just where the echoing notes grew too soft, as if there had never been a break in the music. The notes grew more smooth, suggesting a king walking through court with his attendants. As Hoid played, eyes closed, he leaned forward toward the fire. The air he blew over the flute churned the smoke, stirring it.
The music grew softer. The smoke swirled, and Kaladin thought he could make out the face of a man in the patterns of smoke, a man with a pointed chin and lofty cheekbones. It wasn’t really there, of course. Just imagination. But the haunting song and the swirling smoke seemed to encourage his imagination.
“Derethil fought the Voidbringers during the days of the Heralds and Radiants,” Hoid said, eyes still closed, flute just below his lips, the song echoing in the chasm and seeming to accompany his words. “When there was finally peace, he found he was not content. His eyes always turned westward, toward the great open sea. He commissioned the finest ship men had ever known, a majestic vessel intended to do what none had dared before: sail the seas during a highstorm.”
The echoes tapered off, and Hoid began playing again, as if alternating with an invisible partner. The smoke swirled, rising in the air, twisting in the wind of Hoid’s breath. And Kaladin almost thought he could see an enormous ship in a shipyard, with a sail as large as a building, secured to an arrowlike hull. The melody became quick and clipped, as if to imitate the sounds of mallets pounding and saws cutting.
“Derethil’s goal,” Hoid paused and said, “was to seek the origin of the Voidbringers, the place where they had been spawned. Many called him a fool, yet he could not hold himself back. He named the vessel the Wandersail and gathered a crew of the bravest of sailors. Then, on a day when a highstorm brewed, this ship cast off. Riding out into the ocean, the sail hung wide, like arms open to the stormwinds….”
The flute was at Hoid’s lips in a second and he stirred the fire by kicking at a piece of rockbud shell. Sparks of flame rose in the air and smoke puffed, swirling as Hoid rotated his head down and pointed the flute’s holes at the smoke. The song became violent, tempestuous, notes falling unexpectedly and trilling with quick undulations. Scales rippled into high notes, where they screeched airily.
And Kaladin saw it in his mind’s eye. The massive ship suddenly miniscule before the awesome power of a highstorm. Blown, carried out into the endless sea. What had this Derethil hoped or expected to find? A highstorm on land was terrible enough. But on the sea?
The sounds bounced off the echoing walls below. Kaladin found himself sinking down to the rocks, watching the swirling smoke and rising flames. Seeing the tiny ship captured and held within a furious maelstrom.
Eventually, Hoid’s music slowed, and the violent echoes faded, leaving a much gentler song. Like lapping waves.
“The Wandersail was nearly destroyed in the crash, but Derethil and most of his sailors survived. They found themselves on a ring of small islands surrounding an enormous whirlpool, where, it is said, the ocean drains. Derethil and his men were greeted by a strange people with long, limber bodies who wore robes of single color and shells in their hair unlike any that grow back on Roshar.
“These people took the survivors in, fed them, and nursed them back to health. During his weeks of recovery, Derethil studied the strange people, who called themselves the Uvara, the People of the Great Abyss. They lived curious lives. Unlike the people in Roshar—who constantly argue— the Uvara always seemed to agree. From childhood, there were no questions. Each and every person went about his duty.”
Hoid began the music again, letting the smoke rise unhindered. Kaladin thought he could see in it a people, industrious, always working. A building rose among them with a figure at the window, Derethil, watching. The music was calming, curious.
“One day,” Hoid said, “while Derethil and his men were sparring to regain strength, a young serving girl brought them refreshment. She tripped on an uneven stone, dropping the goblets to the floor and shattering them. In a flash, the other Uvara descended on the hapless child and slaughtered her in a brutal way. Derethil and his men were so stunned that by the time they regained their wits, the child was dead. Angry, Derethil demanded to know the cause of the unjustified murder. One of the other natives explained. ‘Our emperor will not suffer failure.’”
The music began again, sorrowful, and Kaladin shivered. He witnessed the girl being bludgeoned to death with rocks, and the proud form of Derethil bowing above her fallen body.
Kaladin knew that sorrow. The sorrow of failure, of letting someone die when he should have been able to do something. So many people he loved had died.
He had a reason for that now. He’d drawn the ire of the Heralds and the Almighty. It had to be that, didn’t it?
He knew he should be getting back to Bridge Four. But he couldn’t pull himself away. He hung on the storyteller’s words.
“As Derethil began to pay more attention,” Hoid said, his music echoing softly to accompany him, “he saw other murders. These Uvara, these People of the Great Abyss, were prone to astonishing cruelty. If one of their members did something wrong—something the slightest bit untoward or unfavorable—the others would slaughter him or her. Each time he asked, Derethil’s caretaker gave him the same answer. ‘Our emperor will not suffer failure.’”
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.”
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?”