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What did it mean, then? she asked as she waited. Life.
MEANING IS A THING OF MORTALS, the Rider said. IT IS NOT A THING OF STORMS.
That’s sad.
IS IT? he asked. I SHOULD THINK IT ENCOURAGING. MORTALS SEARCH FOR MEANING, SO IT IS PROPER THEY SHOULD CREATE IT. YOU GET TO DECIDE WHAT IT MEANT, ESHONAI. WHAT YOU MEANT.
If I decide, then I failed, she thought. I gave my people to the enemy. I died alone, defeated. I betrayed the gift of my ancestors. I am a shame to all previous listeners.
I WOULD THINK THE OPPOSITE, the Rider said. IN THE END, YOU MADE THE SAME CHOICE AS YOUR ANCESTORS. YOU GAVE AWAY POWER FOR FREEDOM. YOU KNOW THOSE ANCIENT LISTENERS AS FEW EVER HAVE, OR EVER WILL.
That gave her peace as she felt her essence begin to stretch. As if it were moving toward something distant.
Thank you, she said to the Rider.
I DID NOTHING. I WATCHED YOU FALL AND DID NOT STOP IT.
The rain cannot stop the bloodshed, she said, fading. But it washes the world afterward anyway. Thank you.
I COULD HAVE DONE MORE, the Rider replied. PERHAPS I SHOULD HAVE.
It … is enough.…
NO, he said. I CAN GIVE YOU ONE FINAL GIFT.
Eshonai stopped stretching, and instead found herself pulled toward something powerful. She had no eyes, but she suddenly had an awareness—the storm. She had become the storm. She felt every rumble of thunder as her heartbeat.
WATCH, the Rider said. YOU WANTED TO KNOW WHAT WAS BEYOND THE NEXT HILL. SEE THEM ALL.
She soared with him, enveloping the land, flying above it. Her rain bathed each and every hill, and the Rider let her see the world with the eyes of a god. Everywhere the wind blew, she was. Everything the rain touched, she felt. Everything the lightning revealed, she knew.
She flew for what felt like an eternity, sustained by the Rider’s own essence. She saw humans in infinite variety. She saw the captive parshmen—but saw the hope for their freedom. She saw creatures, plants, chasms, mountains, snows … she passed it all. Everything.
The entire world. She saw it. Every little piece was a part of the rhythms. The world was the rhythms. And Eshonai, during that transcendent ride, understood how it fit together.
It was wonderful.
When the Rider finished his passage—exhausted and limping as he passed into the ocean beyond Shinovar—she felt him let go. She faded, but this time she felt her soul vibrating. She understood the rhythms as no one ever could without having seen the world as she had.
FAREWELL, ESHONAI, the Rider of Storms said. FAREWELL, RADIANT.
Bursting with songs, Eshonai let herself pass into the eternities, excited to discover what lay on the other side.
Wit strolled the hallways of Elhokar’s old palace on the Shattered Plains, searching for an audience. He flipped a coin in the air, then caught it before snapping his hand forward and spreading his fingers to show that the coin had vanished. But of course it was secretly in his other hand, palmed, hidden from sight.
“Storytelling,” he said to the hallway, “is essentially about cheating.”
He tucked the coin into his belt with a quick gesture, keeping up the flourishes of his other hand as a distraction. In a moment he could present both hands empty before him. He added to the theatrics by pushing back his sleeves.
“The challenge,” he said, “is to make everyone believe you’ve lived a thousand lives. Make them feel the pain you have not felt, make them see the sights you have not seen, and make them know the truths that you have made up.”
The coin appeared in his hand, though he’d simply slipped it out of his belt again. He rolled it across his knuckles, then made it split into two—because it had always been two coins stuck together. He tossed those up, caught them, and then made them appear to be four after adding the two he’d been palming in his other hand.
“You use the same dirty tricks for storytelling,” Wit said, “as you do for fighting in an alley. Get someone looking the wrong direction so you can clock them across the face. Get them to anticipate a punch and brace themselves, so you can reposition. Always hit them where they aren’t prepared.”
With a flourish, he presented both hands forward, empty again. On his coat, Design made a peppy humming sound. “I found one!” she said. “In your belt!”
“Hush,” Wit said. “Let the audience be amazed.”
“The audience?”
Wit nodded to the side, where a few odd spren were following in the air. Almost invisible, and trailing red light. Windspren—but the wrong color. She was expanding her influence, that old one was. He was curious where it would lead. Also horrified. But the two emotions were not mutually exclusive.
“I don’t think they care about your tricks,” Design said.
“Everyone cares about my tricks.”
“But you can make the coins vanish with Lightweaving,” she said. “So it doesn’t matter how many you hide in your belt. And if you do something amazing, everyone will assume it was done with Surgebinding!”
Wit sighed, tossing four coins in the air, then catching them and presenting one solitary coin.
“They don’t even use those for money here,” Design added. “So you’ll only distract them. Use spheres.”
“Spheres glow,” Wit said. “And they’re tough to palm.”
“Excuses.”
“My life is only excuses.” He wound the coin across his knuckles. “The illusion without Lightweaving is superior, Design.”
“Because it’s fake?”
“Because the audience knows it’s fake,” Wit said. “When they watch and let themselves be amazed, they are joining in the illusion. They’re giving you something vital. Something powerful. Something essential. Their belief.
“When you and the audience both start a performance knowing that a lie is going to be presented, their willing energy vibrates in tune with yours. It propels you. And when they walk away at the end, amazed but knowing they’ve been lied to—with their permission—the performance lingers in their minds. Because the lie was real somehow. Because they know that if they were to rip it apart, they could know how it was done. They realize there must have been flaws they could have caught. Signs. Secrets.”
“So … it’s better…” Design said, “because it’s worse than an illusion using real magic?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s stupid.”
Wit sighed. He bounced his coin off the ground with a metallic pling, then caught it. “Would you go bother someone else for a while?”
“Okay!” Design said excitedly. She moved off his coat and to the floor, then zipped away. His audience of corrupted windspren trailed after her. Traitors.
Wit started down a side hallway, but then felt something. A tingling that made his Breaths go wild.
Ah … he thought. He’d been expecting this; it was why he had left the tower, after all. Odium couldn’t find him there.
He hiked to Elhokar’s former sitting room and made himself available—visible, easy to reach. Then, when the presence entered the nondescript stone chamber, Wit bowed.
“Welcome, Rayse!” Wit said. “It’s been not nearly long enough.”
I noticed your touch on the contract, a dramatic voice said in his head.
