The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  I trailed off as realization burst onto me. Elodin. That is what Elodin had been doing. Everything he’d done in his class. The games, the hints, the cryptic riddling. They were all questions of a sort.

  Marten shook his head and wandered off, but I was lost in my thoughts and hardly noticed. I had wanted answers, and in spite of all I had thought, Elodin had been trying to give them to me. What I had taken as a malicious crypticism on his part was actually a persistent urging toward the truth. I sat there, silent and stunned by the scope of his instruction. By my lack of understanding. My lack of sight.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  The Edge of the Map

  WE CONTINUED TO INCH our way through the Eld. Every day began with the hope of finding traces of a trail. Every night ended with disappointment.

  The shine was definitely off the apple, and our group was slowly being overtaken by irritation and backbiting. Any fear Dedan once felt for me had worn paper-thin, and he pushed at me constantly. He wanted to buy a bottle of brand using the Maer’s purse. I refused. He thought we didn’t need to keep nightly watches, merely set up a tripline. I disagreed.

  Every small battle I won made him resent me more. And his low grumbling steadily increased as our search wore on. It was never anything so bold as a direct confrontation, just a sporadic peppering of snide comments and sulky insubordination.

  On the other hand, Tempi and I were slowly moving toward something like friendship. His Aturan was becoming better, and my Ademic had progressed to the point where I could actually be considered inarticulate, as opposed to just confusing.

  I continued to mimic Tempi as he performed his dance, and he continued to ignore me. Now that I’d been doing it for a while, I recognized a hint of martial flavor to it. A slow motion with one arm gave the impression of a punch, a glacial raising of the foot resembled a kick. My arms and legs no longer shook from the effort of moving slowly along with him, but I was still irritated by how clumsy I was. I hate nothing so much as doing a thing badly.

  For example, there was a portion halfway through that looked easy as breathing. Tempi turned, circled his arms, and took a small step. But whenever I tried to do the same, I inevitably found myself stumbling. I had tried a half-dozen different ways of placing my feet, but nothing made any difference.

  But the day after I told my “loose screw” story, as Dedan eventually came to refer to it, Tempi stopped ignoring me. This time after I stumbled, he stopped and faced me. His fingers flicked: Disapproval, irritation. “Go back,” he said settling into the dance position that came before my stumble.

  I went into the same position and tried to mimic him. I lost my balance again, and had to shuffle my feet to keep from stumbling. “My feet are stupid,” I muttered in Ademic, curling the fingers on my left hand: Embarrassment.

  “No.” Tempi grabbed my hips in his hands and twisted them. Then he pushed my shoulders back, and slapped at my knee, making me bend it. “Yes.”

  I tried moving forward again, and felt the difference. I still lost my balance, but only a little.

  “No,” he said again. “Watch.” He tapped his shoulder. “This.” He stood directly in front of me, barely a foot away, and repeated the motion. He turned, his hands made a circle to the side, and his shoulder pushed into my chest. It was the same motion you would make if you were trying to push open a door with your shoulder.

  Tempi wasn’t moving very quickly, but his shoulder pushed me firmly aside. It wasn’t rough or sudden, but the force of it was irresistible, like when a horse brushes up against you on a crowded street.

  I moved through it again, focusing on my shoulder. I didn’t stumble.

  Since we were the only ones at the camp, I kept the smile from my face and gestured: Happiness. “Thank you.” Understatement.

  Tempi said nothing. His face was blank, his hands still. He merely went back to where he had stood before and began his dance again from the beginning, facing away from me.

  I tried to remain stoic about the exchange, but I took this as a great compliment. Had I known more about the Adem, I would have realized it was far more than that.

  Tempi and I came over a rise to find Marten waiting for us. It was too early for lunch, so hope rose in my chest as I thought that finally, after all these long days of searching, he might have caught the bandits’ trail.

  “I wanted to show you this,” Marten said, gesturing to a tall, sprawling, fernlike plant that stood a dozen feet away. “A bit of a rare thing. Been years since I’ve seen one.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called An’s blade,” he said proudly, looking it over. “You’ll need to keep an eye out. Not many folk know about them so it might give us a clue if there are any more of them about.”

  Marten looked back and forth between us eagerly. “Well?” he said at last.

  “What’s so special about it?” I asked dutifully.

  Marten smiled. “The An’s blade is interesting because it can’t tolerate folk,” he said. “If any part of it touches your skin, it’ll turn red as fall leaves in a couple hours. Redder than that. Bright as your mercenary reds,” Marten gestured to Tempi. “And then that whole plant will dry up and die.”

  “Really?” I asked, no longer having to feign interest.

  Marten nodded. “A drop of sweat will kill it just the same. Which means most times it will die just from touching a person’s clothes. Armor too. Or a stick you’ve been holding. Or a sword.” He gestured to Tempi’s hip. “Some people say it will die if you so much as breathe on it,” Marten said. “But I don’t know if that’s the truth.”

  Marten turned to lead us away from the An’s blade. “This is an old, old piece of forest. You don’t see the blade anywhere near where folk have settled. We’re off the edge of the map here.”

  “We’re hardly on the edge of the map,” I said. “We know exactly where we are.”

  Marten snorted. “Maps don’t just have outside edges. They have inside edges. Holes. Folk like to pretend they know everything about the world. Rich folk especially. Maps are great for that. On this side of the line is Baron Taxtwice’s field, on that side is Count Uptemuny’s land.”

  Marten spat. “You can’t have blanks on your maps, so the folks who draw them shade in a piece and write, ‘The Eld.’ ” He shook his head. “You might as well burn a hole right through the map for what good that does. This forest is big as Vintas. Nobody owns it. You head off in the wrong direction in here, you’ll walk a hundred miles and never see a road, let alone a house or plowed field. There are places around here that have never felt the press of a man’s foot or heard the sound of his voice.”

  I looked around. “It looks the same as most other forests I’ve seen.”

  “A wolf looks like a dog,” Marten said simply.“But it’s not. A dog is . . .” He paused. “What’s that word for animals that are around people all the time? Cows and sheep and such.”

  “Domesticated?”

  “That’s it,” he said, looking around. “A farm is domesticated. A garden. A park. Most forests too. Folks hunt mushrooms, or cut firewood, or take their sweethearts for a little rub and cuddle.”

  He shook his head and reached out to touch the rough bark of a nearby tree. The gesture was oddly gentle, almost loving. “Not this place. This place is old and wild. It doesn’t care one thin sliver of a damn about us. If these folk we’re hunting get the jump on us, they won’t even have to bury our bodies. We’ll lie on the ground for a hundred years and no one will come close to stumbling on our bones.”

  I turned where I stood, looking at the rise and fall of the land. The worn rocks, the endless ranks of trees. I tried not to think about how the Maer had sent me here, like moving a stone on a tak board. He had sent me to a hole in the map. A place where no one would ever find my bones.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  Interlude—Fences

  KVOTHE SAT UPRIGHT IN his seat, craning his neck to get a better look out the window. He was just holdin
g his hand up to Chronicler when they heard a quick, light tapping on the wooden landing outside. Too fast and soft to be the heavy boots of farmers, it was followed by a high peal of childish laughter.

  Chronicler quickly blotted the page he was writing, then tucked it under a stack of blank paper as Kvothe got to his feet and walked toward the bar. Bast leaned back, tipping his chair onto two legs.

  After a moment, the door opened and a young man with broad shoulders and a thin beard stepped into the inn, carefully ushering a little blonde girl through the doorway ahead of him. Behind him a young woman carried a baby boy sitting on her arm.

  The innkeeper smiled, raising a hand. “Mary! Hap!”

  The young couple exchanged a brief word before the tall farmer walked over to Chronicler, still gently ushering the little girl in front of him. Bast got to his feet and offered up his chair to Hap.

  Mary approached the bar, casually untangling one of the little boy’s hands from her hair. She was young and pretty, with a smiling mouth and tired eyes. “Hello Kote.”

  “I haven’t seen you two in a long while,” the innkeeper said. “Can I get you some cider? I pressed it fresh this morning.”

  She nodded, and the innkeeper poured three mugs. Bast carried two over to Hap and his daughter. Hap took his, but the little girl hid behind her father, peering shyly around his shoulder.

  “Would young master Ben like his own cup?” Kote asked.

  “He would,” Mary said, smiling at the boy as he chewed on his fingers. “But I wouldn’t give it to him unless you’re eager to clean the floors.” She reached into her pocket.

  Kote shook his head firmly, holding up a hand. “I won’t hear of it,” he said. “Hap didn’t take half of what the work was worth when he fixed my fences out back.”

  Mary smiled a tired, anxious smile and picked up her mug. “Thank you kindly, Kote.” She walked over to where her husband sat, talking to Chronicler. She spoke to the scribe, swaying gently back and forth, bouncing the baby on one hip. Her husband nodded along, occasionally interjecting a word or two. Chronicler dipped his pen and began to write.

  Bast moved back to the bar and leaned against it, eyeing the far table curiously. “I still don’t understand all of this,” he said. “I know for a fact Mary can write. She’s sent me letters.”

  Kvothe looked curiously at his student, then shrugged. “I expect he’s writing wills and dispositions, not letters. You want that sort of thing done in a clear hand, spelled properly and with no confusion.” He motioned to where Chronicler was pressing a heavy seal onto a sheet of paper. “See? That shows he’s a court official. Everything he witnesses has legal weight.”

  “But the priest does that,” Bast said. “Abbe Grimes is all sorts of official. He writes the marriage records and the deed when someone buys a plot of land. You said yourself, they love their records.”

  Kvothe nodded. “True, but a priest likes it when you leave money to the church. If he writes up your will and you don’t give the church as much as a bent penny . . .” He shrugged. “That can make life hard in a little town like this. And if you can’t read . . . well, then the priest can write down whatever he wants, can’t he? And who’s to argue with him after you’re dead?”

  Bast looked shocked. “Abbe Grimes wouldn’t do something like that!”

  “He probably wouldn’t,” Kvothe conceded. “Grimes is a decent sort for a priest. But maybe you want to leave a piece of land to the young widow down the lane and some money to her second son?” Kvothe raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “That’s the sort of thing a fellow doesn’t care to have his priest writing down. Better to have that news come out after you’re dead and buried deep.”

  Understanding came into Bast’s eyes and he looked at the young couple as if trying to guess what secrets they were trying to hide.

  Kvothe pulled out a white cloth and began to polish the bar absentmindedly. “Most times it’s simpler than that. Some folk just want to leave Ellie the music box and not hear the other sisters wail about it for the next ten years.”

  “Like when the Widow Graden died?”

  “Exactly like when Widow Graden died. You saw how that family tore itself up fighting over her things. Half of them still aren’t on speaking terms.”

  Across the room, the little girl stepped close to her mother and tugged insistently on her dress. A moment later Mary came over to the bar with the little girl in tow. “Little Syl has to tend to her necessary,” she said apologetically. “Could we . . .?”

  Kote nodded and pointed to the door near the stairway.

  Mary turned and held out the little boy to Bast. “Would you mind?”

  Moving mostly on reflex, Bast reached out with both hands to take hold of the boy, then stood there awkwardly as Mary escorted her daughter away.

  The little boy looked around brightly, not sure what to make of this new situation. Bast turned to face Kvothe, the baby held stiffly in front of himself. The child’s expression slowly shifted from curious to uncertain to unhappy. Finally he began to make a soft, anxious noise. He looked as if he were thinking about whether or not he wanted to cry, and was slowly starting to realize that, yes, as a matter of fact, he probably did.

  “Oh for goodness sake, Bast,” Kvothe said in an exasperated voice. “Here.” He stepped forward and took hold of the boy, sitting him on top of the bar and holding him steady with both hands.

  The boy seemed happier there. He rubbed a curious hand on the smooth top of the bar, leaving a smudge. He looked at Bast and smiled. “Dog,” he said.

  “Charming,” Bast said, his voice dry.

  Little Ben began to chew on his fingers and looked around again, more purposefully this time. “Mam,” he said. “Mamamama.” Then he began to look concerned and make the same, low anxious noise as before.

  “Hold him up,” Kvothe said, moving to stand directly in front of the little boy. Once Bast was steadying him, the innkeeper grabbed hold of the boy’s feet and began a singsong chant.

  Cobbler, cobbler, measure my feet.

  Farmer, farmer, plant some wheat.

  Baker, baker, bake me bread.

  Tailor, make a hat for my head.

  The little boy watched as Kvothe made a different hand motion for each line, pretending to plant wheat and knead bread. By the final line the little boy was laughing a delighted, burbling laugh as he clapped his hands to his own head along with the red-haired man.

  Miller, keep your thumb off the scale.

  Milkmaid, milkmaid, fill your pail

  Potter, potter, spin a jug,

  Baby, give your daddy a hug!

  Kvothe made no gesture for the last line, instead he tilted his head, eyeing Bast expectantly.

  Bast merely stood there, confused. Then realization dawned on his face. “Reshi, how could you think that?” he asked, his voice slightly offended. He pointed at the little boy. “He’s blonde!”

  Looking back and forth between the two men, the boy decided that he would, actually, like to have a bit of a cry. His face clouded over, and he began to wail.

  “This is your fault,” Bast said flatly.

  Kvothe picked the little boy up off the bar and jiggled him in a marginally successful attempt to calm him. A moment later when Mary came back into the taproom, the baby howled even louder and leaned toward her, reaching with both hands.

  “Sorry,” Kvothe said, sounding abashed.

  Mary took him back and he went instantly quiet, tears still standing in his eyes. “None of yours,” she said. “He’s just mother-hungry lately.” She touched her nose to his, smiling, and the baby gave another delighted, burbling laugh.

  “How much did you charge them?” Kvothe asked as he walked back to Chronicler’s table.

  Chronicler shrugged. “Penny and a half.”

  Kvothe paused in the act of sitting down. His eyes narrowed. “That won’t cover the cost of your paper.”

  Chronicler asked. “I have ears, don’t I? The smith’s prentice mentioned
the Bentleys are on hard times. Even if he hadn’t, I still have eyes. Fellow’s got seams on both knees and boots worn nearly through. Little girl’s dress is too short for her and half patches besides.”

  Kvothe nodded, his expression grim. “Their south field’s been flooded out two years running. And they had both their goats die this spring. Even if these were good times it would be a bad year for them. With their new little boy . . .” He drew a long breath and let it out in a long, pensive sigh. “It’s the levy taxes. Two this year already.”

  “Do you want me to wreck the fence again, Reshi?” Bast said eagerly.

  “Hush about that, Bast.” A smile flickered around the edges of Kvothe’s mouth. “We’ll need something different this time.” His smile faded. “Before the next levy.”

  “Maybe there won’t be another,” Chronicler said.

  Kvothe shook his head. “It won’t come until after the harvest, but it’ll come. Regular taxmen are bad enough, but they know enough to occasionally look the other way. They know they’ll be back next year, and the year after. But the bleeders . . .”

  Chronicler nodded. “They’re different,” he said grimly. Then recited, “‘If they could, they’d take the rain. If they can’t get gold, they’ll take the grain.’ ”

  Kvothe gave a thin smile and continued.

  If you’ve got no grain, they’ll take your goat.

  They’ll take your firewood and your coat.

  If you’ve a cat, they’ll take your mouse.

  And in the end, they’ll take your house.

  “Everyone hates the bleeders,” Chronicler agreed darkly. “If anything, the nobles hate them twice as much.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Kvothe said. “You should hear the talk around here. If the last one hadn’t had a full armed guard, I don’t think he would have made it out of town alive.”

  Chronicler gave a bent smile. “You should have heard the things my father used to call them,” he said. “And he’d only had two levies in twenty years. He said he’d rather have locusts followed by a fire than the king’s bleeder moving through his lands.” Chronicler glanced at the door of the inn. “They’re too proud to ask for help?”