The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  I was moderately well-buttered when I was called up onto the stage, but it takes more than a little drink to make me fumble-fingered. Just to prove I was not drunk, I made my way through “Whither With He With the Withee,” a song that’s difficult enough to articulate when sober as a stone.

  The audience loved it, and showed its appreciation in the appropriate way. And, since I was not drinking sounten that night, much of the evening is lost to living memory.

  The three of us walked the long road back from the Eolian. There was a crispness to the air that spoke of winter, but the three of us were young and warmed from the inside by many drinks. A breeze pushed my cloak back and I took a full, happy breath.

  Then a sudden panic seized me. “Where’s my lute?” I asked more loudly than I’d intended.

  “You left it with Stanchion at the Eolian,” Wilem said. “He was afraid you would trip over it and break your neck.”

  Simmon had stopped in the middle of the road. I bumped into him, lost my balance, and tumbled to the ground. He hardly seemed to notice. “Well,” he said seriously. “I certainly don’t feel up to that right now.”

  Stonebridge rose ahead of us: two hundred feet from end to end, with a high arch that peaked five stories above the river. It was part of the Great Stone Road, straight as a nail, flat as a table, and older than God. I knew it weighed more than a mountain. I knew it had a three-foot parapet running along both its edges.

  Despite all this knowing, I felt deeply uneasy at the thought of trying to cross it. I climbed unsteadily to my feet.

  As the three of us examined the bridge, Wilem began to lean slowly to one side. I reached out to steady him and at the same time Simmon laid hold of my arm, though whether to help me or to brace himself I couldn’t be certain.

  “I certainly don’t feel up to that right now,” Simmon repeated.

  “There’s a place to sit over here,”Wilem said. “Kella trelle turen navor ka.”

  Simmon and I muffled our laughter, and Wilem led us through the trees to a little clearing not fifty feet from the foot of the bridge. To my surprise a tall greystone stood at the middle of it, pointing skyward.

  Wil entered the clearing with calm familiarity. I came more slowly, looking about curiously. Greystones are special to troupers, and seeing it gave rise to mixed feelings.

  Simmon flopped down in the thick grass while Wilem settled his back against the trunk of a leaning birch. I moved to the greystone and touched it with my fingertips. It was warm and familiar.

  “Don’t push at that thing,” Simmon said nervously. “You’ll tip it over.”

  I laughed. “This stone has been here for a thousand years, Sim. I don’t think my breathing on it is going to hurt it.”

  “Just come away from it. They’re not good things.”

  “It’s a greystone,” I said, giving it a friendly pat. “They mark old roads. If anything, we’re safer being next to it. Greystones mark safe places. Everyone knows that.”

  Sim shook his head stubbornly. “They’re pagan relics.”

  “A jot says I’m right,” I taunted.

  “Ha!” Still on his back, Sim held up a hand. I stepped over to slap it, formalizing our wager.

  “We can go to the Archives and settle it tomorrow,” Sim said.

  I sat down next to the greystone and had just started to relax when I was seized by a sudden panic. “Body of God!” I said. “My lute!” I tried to jump to my feet and failed, almost managing to knock out my brains against the greystone in the process.

  Simmon tried to sit up and calm me, but the sudden motion was too much for him and he fell awkwardly onto his side and began to laugh helplessly.

  “This isn’t funny!” I shouted.

  “It’s at the Eolian,” Wilem said. “You’ve asked about it four times since we left.”

  “No I haven’t,” I said with more conviction than I really felt. I rubbed my head where I’d knocked it against the greystone.

  “There is no reason to be ashamed.” Wilem waved a hand dismissively. “It is man’s nature to dwell on what sits close to his heart.”

  “I heard Kilvin got a few in him at the Taps a couple months ago and wouldn’t shut up about his new cold-sulfur lamp,” Simmon said.

  Wil snorted. “Lorren would rattle on about proper shelving behavior. Grasp by the spine. Grasp by the spine.” He growled and made clutching motions with both hands. “If I hear him say it again I will grasp his spine.”

  A flash of memory came to me. “Merciful Tehlu,” I said, suddenly aghast. “Did I sing ‘Tinker Tanner’ at the Eolian tonight?”

  “You did,” Simmon said. “I didn’t know it had so many verses.”

  I wrinkled my forehead, trying desperately to remember. “Did I sing the verse about the Tehlin and the sheep?” It was not a good verse for polite company.

  “Nia,” Wilem said.

  “Thank God,” I said.

  “It was a goat,” Wilem managed seriously before he bubbled up into laughter.

  “‘. . . in the Tehlin’s cassock!’ ” Simmon sang, then joined Wilem in laughter.

  “No, no,” I said miserably, resting my head in my hands. “My mother used to make my dad sleep under the wagon when he sang that in public. Stanchion will beat me with a stick and take away my pipes next time I see him.”

  “They loved it,” Simmon reassured me.

  “I saw Stanchion singing along,” Wilem added. “His nose was a little red by that time too.”

  There was a long piece of comfortable quiet.

  “Kvothe?” Simmon asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you really Edema Ruh?”

  The question caught me unprepared. Normally it would have set me on edge, but at the moment I didn’t know how I felt about it. “Does it matter?”

  “No. I was just wondering.”

  “Oh.” I continued to watch the stars for a while. “Wondering what?”

  “Nothing in particular,” he said. “Ambrose called you Ruh a couple times, but he’s called you other insulting things before.”

  “It’s not an insult,” I said.

  “I mean he’s called you things that weren’t true,” Sim said quickly. “You don’t talk about your family, but you’ve said things that made me wonder.” He shrugged, still flat on his back, looking up at the stars. “I’ve never known one of the Edema. Not well, anyway.”

  “What you hear isn’t true,” I said. “We don’t steal children, or worship dark Gods or anything like that.”

  “I never believed any of that,” he said dismissively, then added. “But some of the things they say must be true. I’ve never heard anyone play like you.”

  “That doesn’t have anything to do with my being Edema Ruh,” I said, then reconsidered. “Maybe a little.”

  “Do you dance?” Wilem asked, seemingly out of the blue.

  If the comment had come from anyone else, or at a different time, it probably would have started a fight. “That’s just how people picture us. Playing pipes and fiddles. Dancing around our campfires. When we aren’t stealing everything that isn’t nailed down, of course.” A little bitterness crept into my tone when I said the last. “That’s not what being Edema Ruh is about.”

  “What is it about?” Simmon asked.

  I thought about it for a moment, but my sodden wit wasn’t up to the task. “We’re just people really,” I said eventually. “Except we don’t stay in one place very long, and everyone hates us.”

  The three of us watched the stars quietly.

  “Did she really make him sleep under the wagon?” Simmon asked.

  “What?”

  “You said your mom made your dad sleep under the wagon for singing the verse about the sheep. Did she really?”

  “It’s mostly a figure of speech,” I said. “But once she really did.”

  I didn’t often think of my early life in my troupe, back when my parents were alive. I avoided the subject the same way a cripple learns to keep t
he weight off an injured leg. But Sim’s question brought a memory bubbling to the surface of my mind.

  “It wasn’t for singing ‘Tinker Tanner,’” I found myself saying. “It was a song he’d written about her. . . .”

  I was quiet for a long moment. Then I said it. “Laurian.”

  It was the first time I’d said my mother’s name in years. The first time since she’d been killed. It felt strange in my mouth.

  Then, without really meaning to, I began to sing.

  Dark Laurian, Arliden’s wife,

  Has a face like the blade of a knife

  Has a voice like a pricklebrown burr

  But can tally a sum like a moneylender.

  My sweet Tally cannot cook.

  But she keeps a tidy ledger-book

  For all her faults, I do confess

  It’s worth my life

  To make my wife

  Not tally a lot less . . .

  I felt oddly numb, disconnected from my own body. Strangely, while the memory was sharp, it wasn’t painful.

  “I can see how that might earn a man a place under the wagon,” Wilem said gravely.

  “It wasn’t that,” I heard myself saying. “She was beautiful, and they both knew it. They used to tease each other all the time. It was the meter. She hated the awful meter.”

  I never talked about my parents, and referring to them in the past tense felt uncomfortable. Disloyal. Wil and Sim weren’t surprised by my revelation. Anyone who knew me could tell I had no family. I’d never said anything, but they were good friends. They knew.

  “In Atur we sleep in the kennels when our wives are angry,” Simmon said, nudging the conversation back into safer territory.

  “Melosi rehu eda Stiti,” Wilem muttered.

  “Aturan!” Simmon shouted, his voice bubbling with amusement. “No more of your donkey talk!”

  “Eda Stiti?” I repeated. “You sleep next to fire?”

  Wilem nodded.

  “I am officially protesting how quickly you picked up Siaru,” Sim said, holding up a finger. “I studied a year before I was any good. A year! You gobble it up in a single term.”

  “I learned a lot growing up,” I said. “I was just getting the fine points this term.”

  “Your accent is better,” Wil said to Sim. “Kvothe sounds like some southern trader. Very low. You sound much more refined.”

  Sim seemed mollified by that. “Next to the fire,” he repeated. “Does it seem odd that it’s the men that always have to do their sleeping somewhere else?”

  “It’s pretty obvious women control the bed,” I said.

  “Not an unpleasant thought,” Sim said. “Depending on the woman.”

  “Distrel is pretty,” Sim said.

  “Keh,” Wil said. “Too pale. Fela.”

  Simmon shook his head mournfully. “Out of our league.”

  “She is Modegan,” Wilem said, his grin so wide it was almost demonic.

  “She is?” Sim asked. Wil nodded, wearing the widest smile I’d ever seen on his face. Sim sighed wretchedly. “It figures. Bad enough that she’s the prettiest girl in the Commonwealth, I didn’t know she was Modegan, too.”

  “I’ll grant you prettiest girl on her side of the river,” I corrected. “On this side, there’s—”

  “You’ve already gone on about your Denna,” Wil interrupted. “Five times.”

  “Listen,” Simmon said, his tone suddenly serious. “You just have to make your move. This Denna girl is obviously interested in you.”

  “She hasn’t said anything along those lines.”

  “They never say they’re interested.” Simmon laughed at the absurdity of it. “There are little games. It’s like a dance.” He held up two hands, making them talk to each other. “‘Oh, fancy meeting you here.’ ‘Why hello, I was just going to lunch.’ ‘What a happy coincidence, so was I. Can I carry your books?’ ”

  I held up a hand to stop him. “Can we skip to the end of this puppet show, where you end up sobbing into your beer for a span of days?”

  Simmon scowled at me. Wilem laughed.

  “She has enough men fawning over her,” I said. “They come and go like . . .” I strained to think of an analogy and failed. “I’d rather be her friend.”

  “You would rather be close to her heart,” Wilem said without any particular inflection. “You would rather be joyfully held in the circle of her arms. But you fear she will reject you. You fear she would laugh and you would look the fool.” Wilem shrugged easily. “You are hardly the first to feel this way. There is no shame in it.”

  That struck uncomfortably close to the mark, and for a long moment I couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. “I hope,” I admitted quietly. “But I don’t want to assume. I’ve seen what happens to the men that assume too much and cling to her.”

  Wilem nodded solemnly.

  “She bought you that lute case,” Sim said helpfully. “That has to mean something.”

  “But what does it mean?” I said. “It seems like she’s interested, but what if it’s just wishful thinking on my part? All those other men must think she’s interested too. But they’re obviously wrong. What if I’m wrong too?”

  “You’ll never know unless you try,” Sim said, with a bitter edge to his voice. “That’s what I’d normally say. But, you know what? It doesn’t work worth a damn. I chase them and they kick at me like I’m a dog at the dinner table. I’m tired of trying so hard.” He gave a weary sigh, still flat on his back. “All I want is someone who likes me.”

  “All I want is a clear sign,” I said.

  “I want a magical horse that fits in my pocket,” Wil said. “And a ring of red amber that gives me power over demons. And an endless supply of cake.”

  There was another moment of comfortable quiet. The wind brushed gently through the trees.

  “They say the Ruh know all the stories in the world,” Simmon said after a while.

  “Probably true,” I admitted.

  “Tell one,” he said.

  I eyed him narrowly.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he protested. “I’m in the mood for a story, that’s all.”

  “We are somewhat lacking for entertainment,” Wilem said.

  “Fine, fine. Let me think.” I closed my eyes and a story with Amyr in it bubbled to the surface. Hardly surprising. They had been on my mind constantly since Nina had found me.

  I sat up straight. “All right,” I took a breath, then paused. “If either of you have to go piss, do it now. I don’t like having to stop halfway through.”

  Silence.

  “Okay.” I cleared my throat. “There is a place not many folk have seen. A strange place called Faeriniel. If you believe the stories, there are two things that make Faeriniel unique. First, it is where all the roads in the world meet. Second, it is not a place any man has ever found by searching. It is not a place you travel to, it is the place you pass through while on your way to somewhere else.

  “They say that anyone who travels long enough will come there. This is a story of that place, and of an old man on a long road, and of a long and lonely night without a moon. . . .”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  A Piece of Fire

  FAERINIEL WAS A GREAT crossroads, but there was no inn where the roads met. Instead there were clearings in the trees where travelers would set their camps and pass the night.

  Once, years ago and miles away, five groups of travelers came to Faeriniel. They chose their clearings and lit their fires as the sun began to set, pausing on their way from here to there.

  Later, after the sun had set and night was settled firmly in the sky, an old beggar in a tattered robe came walking down the road. He moved with slow care, leaning on a walking stick.

  The old man was going from nowhere to nowhere. He had no hat for his head and no pack for his back. He had not a penny or a purse to put it in. He barely even owned his own name, and even that had been worn thin and threadbare through the ye
ars.

  If you’d asked him who he was, he would have said, “Nobody.” But he would have been wrong.

  The old man made his way into Faeriniel. He was hungry as a dry fire and weary to his bones. All that kept him moving was the hope that someone might give him a bit of dinner and a piece of their fire.

  So when the old man saw firelight flickering, he left the road and made his weary way toward it. Soon he saw four tall horses through the trees. Silver was worked into their harness and silver was mixed with the iron of their shoes. Nearby the beggar saw a dozen mules laden with goods: woolen cloth, cunning jewelry, and fine steel blades.

  But what caught the beggar’s attention was the side of meat above the fire, steaming and dripping fat onto the coals. He almost fainted at the sweet smell of it, for he had been walking all day with nothing to eat but a handful of acorns and a bruised apple he’d found by the side of the road.

  Stepping into the clearing, the old beggar called out to the three dark-bearded men who sat around the fire. “Halloo,” he said. “Can you spare a bit of meat and a piece of your fire?”

  They turned, their gold chains glittering in the firelight. “Certainly,” their leader said. “What do you have with you? Bits or pennies? Rings or strehlaum? Or do you have the true-ringing Cealdish coin we prize above all others?”

  “I have none of these,” the old beggar said, opening his hands to show they were empty.

  “Then you will find no comfort here,” they said, and as he watched they began to carve thick pieces from the haunch that hung by the fire.

  “No offense, Wilem. It’s just how the story goes.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You looked like you were going to.”

  “I may. But it will wait until after.”

  The old man walked on, following the light of another fire through the trees.

  “Halloo!” the old beggar called out as he stepped into the second clearing. He tried to sound cheerful, though he was weary and sore. “Can you spare a bit of meat and a piece of your fire?”