The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  The knot unraveled and the hermit opened the pack. Looking inside, his eyes widened and he let out a low whistle.

  But when the old man spread the pack open on the ground, Jax’s shoulders slumped. He had been hoping for money, or gems, some treasure he could give the moon as a gift. But all the pack held was a bent piece of wood, a stone flute, and a small iron box.

  Of these, only the flute caught Jax’s attention. It was made of a pale green stone. “I had a flute when I was younger,” Jax said. “But it broke and I could never make it right again.”

  “They’re all quite impressive,” the hermit said.

  “The flute is nice enough,” Jax said with a shrug. “But what use is a piece of wood and a box too small for anything practical?”

  The hermit shook his head. “Can’t you hear them? Most things whisper. These things shout.” He pointed at the piece of crooked wood. “That is a folding house unless I miss my guess. Quite a nice one too.”

  “What’s a folding house?”

  “You know how you can fold a piece of paper on itself, and each time it gets smaller?” the old man gestured at the piece of crooked wood. “A folding house is like that. Except it’s a house, of course.”

  Jax took hold of the piece of crooked wood and tried to straighten it. Suddenly he was holding two pieces of wood that resembled the beginning of a doorframe.

  “Don’t unfold it here!” the old man shouted. “I don’t want a house outside my cave, blocking my sunlight!”

  Jax tried to push the two pieces of wood, back together. “Why can’t I fold it back up?”

  “Because you don’t know how, I expect,” the old man said plainly. “I suggest you wait until you know where you want it before you unfold it the rest of the way.”

  Jax set the wood down carefully, then picked up the flute. “Is this special too?” He put it to his lips and blew a simple trill like a Will’s Widow.

  Hespe smiled teasingly, lifted a familiar wooden whistle to her lips, and blew: Ta-ta DEE. Ta-ta DEE.

  Now everyone knows the Will’s Widow is also called a nightjar. So it isn’t out when the sun is shining. Despite this, a dozen nightjars flew down and landed all around Jax, looking at him curiously and blinking in the bright sunlight.

  “It seems to be more than the usual flute,” the old man said.

  “And the box?” Jax reached out and picked it up. It was dark, and cold, and small enough that he could close his hand around it.

  The old man shivered and looked away from the box. “It’s empty.”

  “How can you tell without seeing inside?”

  “By listening,” he said. “I’m amazed you can’t hear it yourself. It’s the emptiest thing I’ve ever heard. It echoes. It’s meant for keeping things inside.”

  “All boxes are meant for keeping things inside.”

  “And all flutes are meant to play beguiling music,” the old man pointed out. “But this flute is moreso. The same is true with this box.”

  Jax looked at the box for a moment, then set it down carefully and began to tie up the third pack with the three treasures inside it. “I think I’ll be moving on,” Jax said.

  “Are you sure you won’t consider staying for a month or two?” the old man said. “You could learn to listen just a bit more closely. Useful thing, listening.”

  “You’ve given me some things to think about,” Jax said. “And I think you’re right, I shouldn’t be chasing the moon. I should make the moon come to me.”

  “That’s not what I actually said,” the old man murmured. But he did so in a resigned way. Skilled listener that he was, he knew he wasn’t being heard.

  Jax set off the next morning, following the moon higher into the mountains. Eventually he found a large, flat piece of ground nestled high among the tallest peaks.

  Jax brought out the crooked piece of wood and, piece by piece, began to unfold the house. With the whole night in front of him, he was hoping to have it finished well before the moon began to rise.

  But the house was much larger than he had guessed, more a mansion than a simple cottage. What’s more, unfolding it was more complicated than he had expected. By the time the moon reached the top of the sky, he was still far from being finished.

  Perhaps Jax hurried because of this. Perhaps he was reckless. Or perhaps it was just that Jax was unlucky as ever.

  In the end the result was the same: the mansion was magnificent, huge and sprawling. But it didn’t fit together properly. There were stairways that led sideways instead of up. Some rooms had too few walls, or too many. Many rooms had no ceiling, and high above they showed a strange sky full of unfamiliar stars.

  Everything about the place was slightly skewed. In one room you could look out the window at the springtime flowers, while across the hall the windows were filmed with winter’s frost. It could be time for breakfast in the ballroom, while twilight filled a nearby bedroom.

  Because nothing in the house was true, none of the doors or windows fit tight. They could be closed, even locked, but never made fast. And as big as it was, the mansion had a great many doors and windows, so there were a great many ways both in and out.

  Jax paid no mind to any of this. Instead, he raced to the top of the highest tower and put the flute to his lips.

  He poured out a sweet song into the clear night sky. No simple bird trill, this was a song that came from his broken heart. It was strong and sad. It fluttered like a bird with a broken wing.

  Hearing it, the moon came down to the tower. Pale and round and beautiful, she stood before Jax in all her glory, and for the first time in his life he felt a single breath of joy.

  They spoke then, on the top of the tower. Jax telling her of his life, his wager, and his long, lonely journey. The moon listened, and laughed, and smiled.

  But eventually she looked longingly toward the sky.

  Jax knew what this foretold. “Stay with me,” he pleaded. “I can only be happy if you’re mine.”

  “I must go,” she said. “The sky is my home.”

  “I have made a home for you,” Jax said, gesturing to the vast mansion below them. “There is sky enough for you here. An empty sky that is all for you.”

  “I must go,” she said. “I have been away too long.”

  He raised his hand as if to grab her, then stopped himself. “Time is what we make it here,” he said. “Your bedroom can be winter or spring, all according to your desire.”

  “I must go,” she said, looking upward. “But I will return. I am always and unchanging. And if you play your flute for me, I will visit you again.”

  “I have given you three things,” he said. “A song, a home, and my heart. If you must go, will you not give me three things in return?”

  She laughed, holding her hands out to her sides. She was naked as the moon. “What do I have that I can leave with you? But if it is mine to give, ask and I will give it.”

  Jax found his mouth was dry. “First I would ask for a touch of your hand.”

  “One hand clasps another, and I grant you your request.” She reached out to him, her hand smooth and strong. At first it seemed cool, then marvelously warm. Gooseflesh ran all up and down Jax’s arms.

  “Second, I would beg a kiss,” he said.

  “One mouth tastes another, and I grant you your request.” She leaned in close to him. Her breath was sweet, her lips firm as fruit. The kiss pulled the breath out of Jax, and for the first time in his life, his mouth curved into the beginning of a smile.

  “And what is the third thing?” the moon asked. Her eyes were dark and wise, her smile was full and knowing.

  “Your name,” Jax breathed. “That I might call you by it.”

  “One body . . .” the moon began, stepping forward eagerly. Then she paused. “Only my name?” she asked, sliding her hand around his waist.

  Jax nodded.

  She leaned close and spoke warmly against his ear, “Ludis.”

  And Jax brought out the black iron box, cl
osing the lid and catching her name inside.

  “Now I have your name,” he said firmly. “So I have mastery over you. And I say you must stay with me forever, so I can be happy.”

  And so it was. The box was no longer cold in his hand. It was warm, and inside he could feel her name, fluttering like a moth against a windowpane.

  Perhaps Jax had been too slow in closing the box. Perhaps he fumbled with the clasp. Or perhaps he was simply unlucky in all things. But in the end he only managed to catch a piece of the moon’s name, not the thing entire.

  So Jax could keep her for a while, but she always slips away from him. Out from his broken mansion, back to our world. But still, he has a piece of her name, and so she always must return.

  Hespe looked around at us, smiling. “And that is why the moon is always changing. And that is where Jax keeps her when she is not in our sky. He caught her and he keeps her still. But whether or not he is happy is only for him to know.”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “That,” Dedan said, “is one hell of a story.”

  Hespe looked down, and though the firelight made it difficult to tell, I would have bet a penny she was blushing. Hard Hespe, who I wouldn’t have guessed had a drop of blushing in her. “It took me a long time to remember all of it,” she said, “My mother used to tell it to me when I was a little girl. Every night, always the same. Said she learned it from her mother.”

  “Well you’ll need to make sure you tell your daughters, too,” Dedan said. “A story like that is too good to let fall by the roadside.”

  Hespe smiled.

  Unfortunately, that peaceful evening was like the lull that comes in the center of a storm. The next day Hespe made a comment that sent Dedan off in a huff, and for two hours they could barely look at each other without hissing like angry cats.

  Dedan tried to convince everyone we should give up our search and instead sign up as caravan guards, hoping the bandits would attack us. Marten said that made as much sense as trying to find a bear trap by putting your foot in it. Marten was right, but that didn’t keep Dedan and the tracker from snapping at each other over the next couple days.

  Two days later, Hespe gave a surprisingly girlish shriek of alarm while bathing. We ran to her assistance, expecting bandits, and instead found Tempi naked, knee-deep in the stream. Hespe stood half-dressed and dripping wet on the shore. Marten thought it was hilarious. Hespe did not. And the only thing that kept Dedan from flying into a rage and attacking Tempi was the fact that he couldn’t figure out how to attack a naked man without looking in his direction or actually touching him.

  The day after that, the weather grew foggy and damp, souring everyone’s mood and slowing our search even further.

  Then it began to rain.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  Losing the Light

  THE LAST FOUR DAYS had been endlessly overcast and raining. At first the trees had given us some shelter, but we soon discovered that the leaves overhead merely held the rain, and the slightest stir of wind sent down showers of heavy drops that had been gathering for hours. This meant that whether or not it was currently raining, we were constantly dripped upon and damp.

  Stories after supper had stopped. Marten caught a cold, and as it worsened he grew sullen and sarcastic. And two days ago the bread had gotten wet. This might sound like a small thing, but if you’ve ever tried to eat a piece of wet bread after a day of walking in the rain, you know what sort of mood it puts you in.

  Dedan had grown truly unmanageable. He balked and complained at the simplest of tasks. The last time he had gone into town for supplies, he had bought a bottle of dreg instead of potatoes, butter, and bowstrings. Hespe left him behind at Crosson and he didn’t get back to camp until nearly midnight, stinking drunk and singing loud enough to make the dead cover their ears.

  I didn’t bother telling him off. Sharp as my trouper’s tongue was, he was obviously immune to it. Instead I waited until he passed out, poured the remaining dreg on the fire, and left the bottle sitting in the coals for him to see. After that, he stopped his constant derogatory muttering about me and settled into chilly silence. While the quiet was nice, I knew it was a bad sign.

  Given everyone’s rising temper, I’d decided each of us would search for trail sign on our own. This was partly because walking in someone’s footsteps over wet turf was a sure way to tear up the ground and leave a trail. But the other reason is that I knew if I sent Dedan and Hespe out together, their eventual argument would alert any bandit within ten miles.

  I came back to camp dripping wet and miserable. It turns out the boots I’d bought in Severen didn’t have a lick of waterproofing, so they drank rainwater like sponges. In the evening I could dry them out using the heat of the fire and a little careful sympathy. But as soon as I took three steps they were soaked through again. So on top of everything my feet had been cold and damp for days.

  It was our twenty-ninth day in the Eld, and when I came over the tiny ridge that hid our latest camp, I saw Dedan and Hespe sitting on opposite sides of the fire, ignoring each other. Hespe was oiling her sword. Dedan was idly jabbing the ground in front of him with a pointed stick.

  I wasn’t in much mood for conversation myself. Hoping the silence held, I went wordlessly to the fire.

  Except there was no fire.

  “What happened to the fire?” I asked stupidly. What had happened was rather obvious. It had been left to burn down to charred sticks and damp ashes.

  “It’s not my turn to get wood,” Hespe said pointedly.

  Dedan poked at the dirt with his stick. I noticed the beginnings of a bruise high on his cheek.

  All I wanted in the world was a little something hot to eat and ten minutes with dry feet. It wouldn’t make me happy, but it would bring me closer to happy than I’d been all day. “I’m surprised the two of you can piss without help,” I spat.

  Dedan glared up at me. “Just what do you mean by that?”

  “When Alveron asked me to do this job for him, he implied I would have adults helping me, not a handful of schoolchildren.”

  Dedan’s snapped. “You don’t know what she—”

  I cut him off. “I don’t care. I don’t care what you’re bickering about. I don’t care what she threw at you. I care that the fire is out. Tehlu above, a trained dog would be more help!”

  Dedan’s expression firmed into a familiar belligerence. “Maybe if—”

  “Shut up,” I said. “I would rather listen to a jackass braying than waste my time with whatever you’re saying. When I come back to camp I expect fire and a meal. If this is beyond you, I’ll arrange to have some five-year-old come out from Crosson and babysit the both of you.”

  Dedan stood. The wind gusted in the trees above us, sending down heavy drops to patter on the ground. “You’re on your way to a meal you won’t be able to stomach, boy.”

  His hands clenched into fists, and I reached into my pocket to grip the mommet I had made of him two days ago. I felt my stomach clench in fear and fury. “Dedan, if you take a single step toward me, I will lay such pain on you that you will scream for me to kill you.” I stared him square in the eye. “Right now I am irritated. Do not even think of making me angry.”

  He paused, and I could almost hear him thinking of every story he had ever heard about Taborlin the Great. Fire and lightning. There was a moment of long silence as the two of us stared at each other, unblinking.

  Luckily, at this point Tempi returned to camp, breaking the tension. Feeling a little foolish, I went to the embers of the fire to see if I could rekindle it. Dedan stomped into the trees, hopefully in search of wood. At this point I didn’t care if it was rennel or not.

  Tempi sat by the side of the dead fire. Perhaps if I hadn’t been busy I might have noticed something odd in his movement. Then again, perhaps not. Even for a semieducated barbarian such as myself, the moods of the Adem are difficult to read.

  As I coaxed the fire slowly back to life, I b
egan to regret how I had handled things. That thought alone kept me from lashing out at Dedan when he returned with an armload of wet wood and dropped it at the edge of my newly rebuilt fire, scattering it.

  Marten came back shortly after I had rebuilt the fire a second time. He settled at the edge of it and spread his hands. His eyes were sunken and dark.

  “Feeling any better?” I asked him.

  “Loads.” His voice rasped wetly in his chest, sounding worse than it had this morning. I worried about the sound of his breathing, about pneumonia, about fever.

  “I can mix you a tea that will make your throat a little easier,” I suggested without much hope. He’d rejected all my offers of help over the last several days.

  He hesitated, then nodded. As I was heating the water he had a fit of violent coughing that lasted nearly a minute. If the rain didn’t stop tonight we would have to head into town and wait for him to recover. I couldn’t risk him catching pneumonia or giving away our position to bandit sentries with a coughing fit.

  I handed him his tea, and Tempi stirred in his seat by the edge of the fire. “I killed two men today,” he said.

  There was a long moment of stunned silence. Rain pattered on the ground around us. The fire hissed and spat.

  “What?” I asked incredulously.

  “I was attack by two men behind trees,” Tempi said calmly.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “Dammit Tempi, why didn’t you say something before?”

  He gave me a level look and his fingers made an unfamiliar circle. “It is not easy to kill two men,” he said.

  “Are you hurt?” Hespe asked.

  Tempi turned his cool look on her next. Offended. I’d misunderstood his previous comment. It wasn’t the fight itself he had found difficult. It was the fact that he had killed two men. “I have needed this time to settle my thought. Also, I wait to when all are here.”

  I tried to remember the gesture for apology, but had to settle for sorrow instead. “What happened?” I asked calmly as I fingered the frayed ends of my patience.