The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  “Denna.” I had to interrupt her, as she was barely pausing to breathe. I laid my hand on her arm and she grew stiff and still. “Denna, there’s no way you could have known,” I interrupted. “You’ve been playing for how long? A month? Have you ever even owned an instrument?”

  She shook her head, her face still hidden by her hair. “I had that lyre,” she said softly. “But only for a few days before the fire.” She looked up at last, her expression pure misery. Her eyes and nose were red. “This happens all the time. I try to do something good, but it gets all tangled up.” She gave me a wretched look. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  I laughed. It felt amazingly good to laugh again. It boiled up from deep in my belly and burst out of my throat like notes from a golden horn. That laugh alone was worth three hot meals and twenty hours of sleep.

  “I know exactly what it’s like,” I said, feeling the bruises on my knees and the pull of half-healed scars along my back. I considered telling her how much of a mess I’d made of retrieving her ring. Then decided it probably wouldn’t help her mood if I explained how Ambrose was trying to kill me. “Denna, I am the king of good ideas gone terribly wrong.”

  She smiled at that, sniffing and rubbing at her eyes with a sleeve. “We’re a lovely couple of weepy idiots, aren’t we?”

  “We are,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, her smile fading. “I just wanted to do something nice for you. But I’m no good at these things.”

  I took hold of Denna’s hand in both of mine and kissed it. “Denna,” I said with perfect honesty, “this is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  She snorted indelicately.

  “Pure truth,” I said. “You are my bright penny by the roadside. You are worth more than salt or the moon on a long night of walking.You are sweet wine in my mouth, a song in my throat, and laughter in my heart.”

  Denna’s cheeks flushed, but I rolled on, unconcerned.

  “You are too good for me,” I said. “You are a luxury I cannot afford. Despite this, I insist you come with me today. I will buy you dinner and spend hours waxing rhapsodic over the vast landscape of wonder that is you.”

  I stood and pulled her to her feet. “I will play you music. I will sing you songs. For the rest of the afternoon, the rest of the world cannot touch us.” I cocked my head, making it a question.

  Denna’s mouth curved. “That sounds nice,” she said. “I’d like to get away from the world for the space of an afternoon.”

  Hours later I walked back to the University with a spring in my step. I whistled. I sang. My lute on my shoulder was light as a kiss. The sun was warm and soothing. The breeze was cool.

  My luck was beginning to change.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Crucible

  WITH MY LUTE BACK in my hands, the rest of my life slid easily back into balance. My work in the Fishery was easier. My classes breezed by. Elodin even seemed to make more sense.

  It was with a light heart that I visited Simmon in the alchemy complex. He opened the door to my knocking and gestured me inside. “It worked,” he said excitedly.

  I eased the door shut, and he led me to a table where a series of bottles, tubes, and coal-gas burners were arranged. Sim smiled proudly and held up a short, shallow jar of the sort you use to store face paint or rouge.

  “Can you show me?” I asked.

  Sim lit a small coal-gas burner and the flame fanned against the bottom of a shallow iron pan. We stood quietly for a moment, listening to it hiss.

  “I got new boots,” Sim said conversationally, lifting up a foot so I could see.

  “They’re nice,” I said automatically, then paused and looked closer. “Are those hobnails?” I asked incredulously.

  He grinned viciously. I laughed.

  The iron pan grew hot, and Sim unscrewed the jar, pressing the pad of his index finger into the translucent substance inside. Then, with a little flourish, he raised his hand and pressed the tip of his finger onto the surface of the hot iron pan.

  I winced. Sim smiled smugly and stood there for the space of a long breath before pulling his finger away.

  “Incredible,” I said. “You guys do some crazy things over here. A heat shield.”

  “No,” Sim said seriously. “That’s absolutely the wrong way to think about it. It’s not a shield. It’s not an insulator. It’s like an extra layer of skin that burns away before your real skin gets hot.”

  “Like having water on your hands,” I said.

  Sim shook his head again. “No, water conducts heat. This doesn’t.”

  “So it is an insulator.”

  “Okay,” Sim said, exasperated. “You need to shut up and listen. This is alchemy. You know nothing about alchemy.”

  I made a placating gesture. “I know. I know.”

  “Say it, then. Say, ‘I know nothing about alchemy.’ ”

  I glowered at him.

  “Alchemy isn’t just chemistry with some extra bits,” he said. “That means if you don’t listen to me, you’ll jump to your own conclusions and be dead wrong. Dead and wrong.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. Tell me.”

  “You’ll have to spread it on quickly,” he said. “You’ll only have about ten seconds to get it spread evenly onto your hands and lower arms.” He made a gesture to his midforearm.

  “It won’t rub away, but you will lose a bit if you chafe at your hands too much. Don’t touch your face at all. Don’t rub your eyes. Don’t pick your nose. Don’t bite your fingernails. It’s sort of poisonous.”

  “Sort of?” I asked.

  He ignored me, holding out the finger he’d pressed onto the hot iron pan. “It’s not like armor gloves. As soon as it’s exposed to heat, it begins to burn away.”

  “Will there be any smell?” I asked. “Anything that will give it away?”

  “No. It doesn’t really burn technically. It simply breaks down.”

  “What does it break down into?”

  “Things,” Simmon said testily. “It breaks down into complicated things you can’t understand because you don’t know anything about alchemy.”

  “Is it safe to breathe?” I amended.

  “Yes. I wouldn’t give it to you otherwise. This is an old formula. Tried and true. Now, because it doesn’t transmit heat, your hands will go straight from feeling cool to being pressed up hard against something burning hot.” He gave me a pointed look. “I advise you stop touching hot things before it’s all used up.”

  “How can I tell when it’s about to be used up?”

  “You can’t,” he said simply. “Which is why I advise using something other than your bare hands.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “If it mixes with alcohol it will turn acidic. Only mildly though. You’d have plenty of time to wash it off. If it mixes with a little water, like your sweat, that’s fine. But if it mixes with a lot of water, say a hundred parts to one, it will turn flammable.”

  “And if I mix it with piss it turns into delicious candy, right?” I laughed. “Did you make a bet with Wilem about how much of this I’d swallow? Nothing becomes flammable when you mix it with water.”

  Sim’s eyes narrowed. He picked up an empty crucible. “Fine,” he said. “Fill this up then.”

  Still smiling, I moved to the water canister in the corner of the room. It was identical to the ones in the Fishery. Pure water is important for artificing too, especially when you’re mixing clays and quenching metals you don’t want contaminated.

  I splashed some water into the crucible and brought it back to Sim. He dipped the tip of his finger into it, swirled it around, and poured it into the hot iron pan.

  Thick orange flame roared up, burning three feet high until it flickered and died. Sim set down the empty crucible with a slight click and looked at me gravely. “Say it.”

  I looked down at my feet. “I know nothing about alchemy.”

  Sim nodded, seeming pl
eased. “Right,” he said, turning back to the worktable. “Let’s go over this again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Blood and Ash

  LEAVES CRUNCHED UNDERFOOT AS I made my way through the forest to the north of the University. The pale moonlight filtering through the bare trees wasn’t enough to see clearly, but I had made this trip several times in the last span and knew the way by heart. I smelled wood smoke long before I heard voices and glimpsed firelight through the trees.

  It wasn’t really a clearing, just a quiet space hidden behind a rocky outcrop. A few pieces of fieldstone and the trunk of a fallen tree provided makeshift seats. I had dug the fire pit myself a few days ago. It was over a foot deep and six across, lined with stones. It dwarfed the small campfire currently burning there.

  Everyone else was already there. Mola and Fela shared the log-bench. Wilem was hunkered down on a stone. Sim sat cross-legged on the ground, poking at the fire with a stick.

  Wil looked up as I came out of the trees. In the flickering firelight his eyes looked dark and sunken. He and Sim had been watching over me for almost two whole span. “You’re late,” he said.

  Sim looked up to see me, cheerful as always, but there were marks of exhaustion on his face too. “Is it finished?” he asked, excited.

  I nodded. Unbuttoning my cuff, I rolled up my shirtsleeve to reveal an iron disk slightly larger than a commonwealth penny. It was covered in fine sygaldry and inlaid with gold. My newly finished gram. It was strapped flat against the inside of my forearm with a pair of leather cords.

  A cheer went up from the group.

  “Interesting way to wear it,” Mola said. “Fashionable in a sort of barbarian raider way.”

  “It works best in contact with skin,” I explained. “And I need to keep it out of sight, since I’m not supposed to know how to make one.”

  “Practical and stylish,” Mola said.

  Simmon wandered over and peered at it, reaching out to touch it with a finger. “It seems so small—aaaahh!” Sim cried out as he jumped backward, wringing his hand. “Black damn,” he swore, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It startled me is all.”

  “Kist and crayle,” I said, my own heart racing. “What’s the matter?”

  “Have you ever touched one of the Arcanum guilders?” he asked. “The ones they give you when you become a full arcanist?”

  I nodded. “It sort of buzzed. Made my hand go numb, like it had fallen asleep.”

  Sim nodded toward my gram, shaking his hand. “It feels like that. Surprised me.”

  “I didn’t know the guilders acted as grams too,” I said. “Makes sense though.”

  “Have you tested it?” Wilem asked.

  I shook my head. “It seemed a little strange for me to test it myself,” I admitted.

  “You want one of us to do it?” Simmon laughed. “You’re right, that’s perfectly normal.”

  “I also thought it would be convenient to have a physicker nearby.” I nodded in Mola’s direction. “Just in case.”

  “I didn’t know I was going to be needed in my professional capacity tonight,” Mola protested. “I didn’t bring my kit.”

  “It shouldn’t be necessary,” I said as I brought a block of sympathy wax out of my cloak and brandished it. “Who wants to do the honors?”

  There was a moment of silence, then Fela held out her hand. “I’ll make the doll, but I’m not sticking it with a pin.”

  “Vhenata,” Wilem said.

  Simmon shrugged. “Fine, I’ll do it. I guess.”

  I handed the block of wax to Fela, and she began warming it with her hands. “Do you want to use hair or blood?” she asked softly.

  “Both,” I said, trying not to let my growing anxiety show.“I need to be absolutely sure of it if I’m going to be able sleep at night.” I pulled out a hatpin, pricked the back of my hand, and watched a bright bead of blood well up.

  “That won’t work.” Fela said, still working the wax with her hands. “Blood won’t mix with wax. It’ll just bead up and squish out.”

  “And how did you come by that tidbit of information?” Simmon teased uneasily.

  Fela flushed, ducking her head a little, causing her long hair to cascade off her shoulder. “Candles. When you make colored candles you can’t use a water-based dye. It needs to be powder or oil. It’s a solubility issue. Polar and nonpolar alignments.”

  “I love the University,” Sim said to Wilem on the other side of the fire. “Educated women are so much more attractive.”

  “I’d like to say the same,” Mola said dryly. “But I’ve never known any educated men.”

  I bent down and picked up a pinch of ash from the fire pit, then dusted it over the back of my hand where it absorbed the blood.

  “That should work,” Fela said.

  “This flesh will burn. To ash all things return,” Wilem intoned in a somber voice, then turned to Simmon. “Isn’t that what it says in your holy book?”

  “It’s not my holy book,” Simmon said. “But you’re close. ‘To ash all things return, so too this flesh will burn.’ ”

  “You two are certainly enjoying yourselves,” Mola observed dryly.

  “I am giddy thinking of a full night’s sleep,” Wilem said. “An evening’s entertainment is coffee after cake.”

  Fela held out the blob of soft wax, and I pressed the wet ash into it. She kneaded it again, then began to mold it, her fingers patting it into a manshaped doll in a few deft motions. She held it out for the group to see.

  “Kvothe’s head is way bigger than that,” Simmon said with his boyish grin.

  “I also have genitals,” I said as I took the mommet from Fela and fixed a hair to the top of its head. “But at a certain point realism becomes unproductive.” I walked over to Sim and handed him both the simulacra and the long hatpin.

  He took one in each hand, looking uneasily back and forth between them. “You sure about this?”

  I nodded.

  “Fair enough.” Sim drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His forehead furrowed in concentration as he stared at the doll.

  I doubled over, shrieking and clutching at my leg.

  Fela gasped. Wilem leaped to his feet. Simmon went wide-eyed with panic, holding the doll and pin stiff-armed away from each other. He looked around wildly at everyone. “I . . . I didn’t . . .”

  I straightened up, brushing at my shirt. “Just practicing,” I said. “Was the scream too girly?”

  Simmon went limp with relief. “Damn you,” he said weakly, laughing. “That’s not funny, you bastard.” He continued to laugh helplessly as he wiped away the sheen of sweat from his forehead.

  Wilem muttered something in Siaru and returned to his seat.

  “You three are as good as a traveling troupe,” Mola said.

  Simmon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He reset his shoulders and brought the doll and the pin up in front of him. His hand shook. “Tehlu anyway,” he said. “You scared the hell out of me. I can’t do this now.”

  “For the love of God.” Mola stood and walked around the fire pit to stand over Simmon. She held out her hands. “Give it to me.” She took the mommet and pin and turned to look me in the eye. “Are you ready?”

  “Just a second.” After two span of constant vigilance, letting go of the Alar that protected me felt like prying open a fist gone stiff from clutching something too long.

  After a moment, I shook my head. I felt strange without the Alar. Almost naked. “Don’t hold back, but hit me in the leg, just in case.”

  Mola paused, murmured a binding, and drove the pin through the leg of the doll.

  Silence. Everyone watched me, motionless.

  I didn’t feel a thing. “I’m fine,” I said. Everyone started to breathe again as I gave Mola a curious look. “Was that really everything you had?”

  “No,” Mola said frankly as she pulled the pin out of the doll’s leg and knelt to hold it over the fire. “That was a gentle test run. I di
dn’t want to listen to your girly scream again.” She pulled the pin back out of the fire and stood up. “I’m going to come charging in for real this time.” She poised the pin over the doll and looked at me. “You ready?”

  I nodded. She closed her eyes for a moment, then murmured a binding and stabbed the hot pin through the mommet’s leg. The metal of the gram went cool against the inside of my arm, and I felt a brief pressure against my calf muscle, as if someone had prodded me with a finger. I looked down to make sure Simmon wasn’t getting some revenge by poking at me with a stick.

  Because I wasn’t watching, I missed what Mola did next, but I felt three more dull prods, one in each arm and the other in the thick muscle just above my knee. The gram grew colder.

  I heard Fela gasp and looked up in time to see Mola, grim-faced and resolute, toss the mommet into the heart of the campfire, murmuring another binding.

  As the wax doll arced through the air, Simmon let out a startled yelp. Wilem came to his feet again, almost lunging at Mola, but too late to stop her.

  The mommet landed among the red coals with an explosion of sparks. My gram went almost painfully cold against my arm and I laughed crazily. Everyone turned to look at me, their expressions in various stages of horror and disbelief.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “This feels really weird though. It’s flickery. Like standing in a warm, thick wind.”

  The gram grew icy against my arm, then the odd sensation faded as the doll melted, destroying the sympathetic link. The fire leaped up as the wax began to burn.

  “Did it hurt?” Simmon asked anxiously.

  “Not a bit,” I said.

  “And that was everything I had,” Mola said. “To do any more I would have had to have a forge fire at my disposal.”

  “And she’s El’the,” Simmon said smugly. “I bet she’s three times the sympathist Ambrose is.”

  “At least three times,” I said, “But if anyone was going to go out of their way to find a forge fire, it would be Ambrose. You can overwhelm a gram if you throw enough at it.”