“What?” Wit said, dusting off his blue uniform—which was untouched by the rain. “A master can’t check in on his favorite student now and then?”

He glowed softly, visible even in the darkness, and his substance rippled at the rain’s interference. Like he was a reflection on a puddle. This was an illusion, but why now? How had he …

“Auxiliary?” Nomad demanded. “Did you reinforce my Connection to Wit when you were playing with my soul earlier?”

Since I am dead, the knight replies with a huff, I don’t really have to care if you’re angry at me or not.

Oh, storms. That’s what had happened. Now that they had the proper threshold for it, Auxiliary had reached through the distance and let Wit Connect to Nomad.

“So,” Wit said, looking him up and down, “that’s a … curious outfit.”

“It’s what you get,” Nomad said, “when your clothing gets set on fire by the sunlight, then you are dragged behind a speeding hovercycle for a half hour.”

“Chic,” Wit said.

“I don’t have time for you, Wit,” Nomad said. “The Night Brigade is out there. Hunting me. Because of what you did to me.”

“You may have saved the cosmere.”

“I absolutely did not save the cosmere,” Nomad snapped, finding a pebble in his pocket and throwing it through Wit’s head. The image rippled and then restored. “I might have saved you though.”

“Same difference.”

“It’s not,” Nomad said. “It’s really not.” He stepped closer to Wit’s projection. “If they catch me, they’ll be able to connect the Dawnshard to you. And then they’ll be on your tail.”

Wit didn’t respond. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood up straight, a trick he’d taught Nomad years ago to convince an audience you were thinking about something very important.

“You’ve had a hard time of it lately,” Wit said, “haven’t you, apprentice?”

“I’m not your apprentice,” Nomad said. “And don’t pretend to care now. You didn’t do anything when my friends and I were dying to arrows all those years ago. I went to Damnation then, and you sat around playing a flute. Don’t you dare presume to imply you care about me now! I’m just another tool to you.”

“I never did get a chance to apologize for … events in Alethkar.”

“Well, it’s not like you had the opportunity to,” Nomad said. “After frequently talking to my superior officer, asking him to pass messages to me. After living together in the same city for years and never stopping by. You left me to rot. And it ate you away from the inside, didn’t it? Not because you care. But because someone knew what you really were, then had the audacity not to die and simplify your life.”

Wit actually looked down at those words. Huh. It wasn’t often that one could stab him with a knife that hurt. Took familiarity. And truth. Two things Wit was far too good at avoiding.

“There was a boy, once,” Wit began, “who looked at the stars and wondered if—”

Nomad deliberately turned and walked away. He’d heard far, far too many of this man’s stories to care for another.

“I was that boy,” Wit said from behind. “When I was young. On Yolen. Before this all began—before God died and worlds started ending. I … I was that boy.”

Nomad froze, then glanced over his shoulder. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but droplets of it still interrupted Wit’s figure.

He didn’t often speak of his past. Of … those days long ago. He claimed to not remember much about his childhood—a time spent in a land of dragons and bone-white trees.

“Are you lying?” Nomad called to him. “Is this a fabrication? The perfect hook designed to reel me in?”

“No lies, not right now,” Wit said, gazing up at the sky. “I can remember … sitting on a rooftop. Looking up and wondering what the stars were.

“I assumed I’d never know. The town philosophers had talked themselves hoarse arguing the matter, as was often their way. Talk until you can’t talk anymore, and then hope someone will buy you a drink to keep the words flowing.” He smiled at Nomad, eyes twinkling. “Yet here I am. Millennia later. Walking between the stars, learning each one. I got my answers eventually. Yet … I’d guess that, by now, you’ve seen more of the cosmere than I have.”

“So it’s a blessing?” Nomad asked, gesturing to himself. “This Torment you’ve given me?”

“Every Torment is,” Wit said, “even mine.”

“Wonderful. Very comforting. Thanks for the chat, Wit.” Nomad continued on his way. As he walked, he found Wit appearing farther along the rim in front of him, turning to watch him pass.

“You always wanted the answers,” Wit said. “That’s why I took you on. You thought you could find them, tease them out, write them down, and catalogue the world. So certain you could find every one, if you just tried hard enough …”

“Yes, I was an idiot, thank you. Appreciate the reminder.”

Wit, of course, appeared ahead of him again—though he was fading, his form becoming transparent. The little burst of Connection Auxiliary had used to make this meeting happen was running out, blessedly.

“It’s a good instinct,” Wit said, “to search for answers. To want them.”

“They don’t exist,” Nomad said with a sigh, stopping to look at Wit. “There are too many questions. Seeking any kind of explanation is madness.”

“You’re right on the first point,” Wit said. “Remarkable to think that I discovered the secret to the stars themselves. But then found questions abounding that were even more pernicious. Questions that, yes, have no answers. No good ones, anyway.” He met Nomad’s eyes. “But realizing that changed me, apprentice. It’s not—”

“It’s not the answers but the questions themselves,” Nomad interrupted. “Yes, blah blah. I’ve heard it. Do you know how many times I’ve heard it?”

“Do you understand it?”

“Thought I did,” he said. “Then my oaths ended, and I realized that destinations really are important, Wit. They are. No matter what we say.”

“Nobody ever implied they lacked importance,” Wit said. “And I don’t think you do understand. Because if you did, you’d realize: sometimes, asking the questions is enough. Because it has to be enough. Because sometimes, that’s all there is.”

Nomad held his gaze. Fuming for reasons he couldn’t explain. Exasperated, though of course that part was normal when Wit was involved.

“I’m not going back,” Nomad said, “to who I was. I don’t want to go back. I’m not running from him. I don’t care about him.”

“I know,” Wit said softly. Then he leaned in. “I was wrong. I did the best with the situation I had, hoping it would prevent calamity. I ruined your life, and I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

How … odd it was to hear him be so forthright, so frank. Sincere. Completely sincere. Storm that man, how did he keep surprising Nomad, even after all this time?

Nomad turned to go, but then stopped, waiting for the final word. Wit always had the final word. This time, though, the man just gave Nomad a wan, sorrowful smile, then faded to nothing. Perhaps he knew there was nothing more of any use he could say, and so had fallen silent. If so, it was probably the first time that had happened in Wit’s life.

Nomad sighed. He expected a wisecrack from Auxiliary, but the spren stayed silent as well. He usually did when Wit was around—he knew Nomad often felt double-teamed in situations like that.

“Damnation,” Nomad said, “we need to get off this planet. And I know how we can do it.”

How? the knight asks, wondering if his squire has missed the entire point of an important conversation.

“The people running this place found an access disc that looks very familiar. Scadrian writing on it. And you can bet if there’s a power source on this planet powerful enough to get me offworld, it will be with them.”

Ahhh … Auxiliary said. So what do we do?

Nomad stalked to the building he’d left behind, picking it out easily because he’d left the doors cracked open by accident. He stomped inside, trailing water, rifle under his arm. He burst in on the people still in conference, his arrival causing them to stumble back in surprise and fear. Not a single one reached for a weapon.

Yeah, they were doomed. But maybe their desires aligned with his. He grabbed the access disc off the table, held it up, and spoke in their tongue—perfectly, without accent.

“I know what this is,” he said. “It’s a key to a large metal door, probably buried somewhere, right? With similar writing on it?” He tossed the key onto the table, where it hit and flipped, clattering against the wood. “I’m going there too. Maybe we can help each other.”