The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Vashet contemplated the end of the willow rod, then turned her eyes back to me. “We will meet here again, an hour after lunch. You will pick another stick, and I will try to teach you this lesson again.” She gave me a pointed look. “If the stick you bring me does not please me, I will choose my own.

  “We will do the same after dinner. Then the same the next day. This is the only lesson I have to teach you. When you learn it, you will leave Haert and never return.” She looked at me, her face cool. “Do you understand?”

  “What will—” Her hand flicked out, and the tip of the rod caught me on the cheek. This time I had the breath for it, and I gave a high, startled yelp.

  Vashet looked at me. I’d never thought anything so simple as eye contact could be so intimidating. But her pale grey eyes were hard as ice. “Say to me, ‘Yes, Vashet. I understand.’ ”

  I glared. “Yes, Vashet. I understand.” The right side of my upper lip felt huge and unwieldy as I spoke.

  She searched my face, as if trying to decide something, then shrugged and tossed the stick aside.

  Only then did I risk speaking again. “What would happen to Tempi if I were to leave?”

  “When you leave,” she said, stressing the first word. “The few that doubt it will know he was wrong to teach you. Doubly wrong to bring you here.”

  “And what will . . .” I paused and backtracked. “What would become of him in that case?”

  She shrugged and turned away. “That is not for me to decide,” she said, and walked away.

  I touched my cheek and lip, then looked at my hand. No blood, but I could feel the red welt rising on my skin, plain as a brand for anyone to see.

  Not sure what else I should do, I returned to the school for lunch. After making my way to the dining hall, I looked around but didn’t see Tempi among the blood-red mercenaries there. I was glad for that. As much as I would have enjoyed some friendly company, I couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing how badly things had gone. I wouldn’t even need to tell him. The mark on my face said it plainly for everyone in the room to see.

  I kept my face impassive and my eyes low as I moved through the line and filled my plate. Then I chose an empty section of table, not wanting to force my company on anyone.

  I have been alone for most of my life. But rarely have I felt it so much as at that moment. I knew one person within four hundred miles, and he’d been ordered to keep away from me. I was unfamiliar with the culture, barely competent with the language, and the burning all across my back and face was a constant reminder of how much I was unwelcome.

  The food was good though. Roasted chicken, crisp longbeans, and a slice of sweet molasses pudding. Better fare than I could usually afford for myself at the University, and hotter than the food at the Maer’s estate. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I’ve been hungry enough in my life that I have a hard time walking away from an easy meal.

  There was a shadow of movement on the edge of my vision as someone sat down across the table from me. I felt my mood lighten. At least one person was brave enough to visit the barbarian. Someone was kind enough to comfort me, or at least curious enough to come and talk.

  Lifting my head I saw Carceret’s lean, scarred face. She set her wide wooden plate down across from me.

  “How do you like our town?” she said quietly, her left hand resting on the surface of the table. Her gestures were different, as we were sitting, but I could still recognize curious and polite. To anyone watching, it would seem like we were having a pleasant conversation. “How do you like your new teacher? She thinks as I think. That you do not belong.”

  I chewed another mouthful of chicken and swallowed mechanically, not looking up.

  Concern. “I heard you cry out,” she continued softly. She spoke slower now, as if talking to a child. I wasn’t sure if it was meant as an insult, or to ensure I understood her. “It was like a tiny bird.”

  I took a drink of warm goat’s milk and wiped my mouth. The motion of my arm pulled my shirt across the welt on my back, stinging like a hundred wasps.

  “Was it a cry of love?” she asked, making a gesture I didn’t recognize. “Did Vashet embrace you? Does your cheek bear the mark of her tongue?”

  I took a bit of pudding. It wasn’t as sweet as I remembered.

  Carceret took a bite of her own pudding. “Everyone gambles on when you will leave,” she continued, still speaking slow and low, for my ears only. “I have two talents wagered that you will not last a second day. If you leave in the night, as I hope, I win silver. If I am wrong and you stay, I win in bruises and listening to your cries.” Entreaty. “Stay.”

  I looked up at her. “You speak as a dog barks,” I said. “With no end. With no sense.”

  I spoke quietly enough to be polite. But not so quietly that my voice didn’t reach the ears of everyone sitting close to us. I know how to make a soft voice carry. We Ruh invented the stage whisper.

  I saw her face flush, making the pale scars on her jaw and eyebrow stand out.

  I looked down and continued to eat, the very picture of calm unconcern. It’s tricky, insulting someone from a different culture. But I’d chosen my words carefully, based on things I’d heard Tempi say. If she responded in any way, it would only seem to prove my point.

  I finished the rest of my meal slowly and methodically, imagining I could feel the rage rolling off her like waves of heat. This small battle, at least, I could win. It was a hollow victory, of course. But sometimes you have to take what you can get.

  When Vashet returned to the small park, I was already sitting on one of the stone benches, waiting for her.

  She stood before me and sighed gustily. “Lovely. A slow learner,” she said in her perfect Aturan. “Go fetch your stick then. We’ll see if I can make my point more clearly this time.”

  “I’ve already found my stick,” I said. I reached behind the bench and brought out a wooden training sword I’d borrowed from the school.

  It was old, oiled wood, worn smooth by countless hands, hard and heavy as a bar of iron. If she used this to strike my shoulders as she had with the willow rod, it would break bones. If she struck my face, it would shatter my jaw.

  I set it on the bench beside me. The wood didn’t clatter against the stone. It was so hard it almost rang like a bell.

  After I set down the training sword, I began to pull my shirt up over my head, sucking a breath through my teeth when it dragged against the hot welt on my back.

  “Are you hoping to sway me with the offer of your tender young body?” Vashet asked. “You’re pretty, but not so pretty as that.”

  I laid my shirt carefully on the bench. “I just thought it would be best if I showed you something.” I turned so she could see my back.

  “You’ve been whipped,” she said. “I cannot say I’m surprised. I already knew you to be a thief.”

  “These are not from thieving,” I said. “These are from the University. I was brought up on charges and sentenced to be whipped. When this happens, many students simply leave and take their education elsewhere. I decided to stay. It was only three lashes, after all.”

  I waited, still facing away. After a moment she took the bait. “There are more scars here than three lashes can account for.”

  “Some time after that,” I said, “I was brought up on charges again. Six lashes this time. Still I stayed.” I turned back to face her. “I stayed because there was no other place I could learn what I desired. Mere whipping could not keep me away from it.”

  I picked up the heavy wooden sword from the bench. “I thought it only fair that you should know this. I cannot be frightened away with the threat of pain. I will not abandon Tempi after the trust he has shown me. There are things I desire to learn, and I can only learn them here.”

  I handed her the hard, dark piece of wood. “If you want me to leave, you must do worse than welts.”

  I stepped back and let my hands hang at my sides. I closed my eyes.

  CHAPTER ONE H
UNDRED THIRTEEN

  Barbarian Tongue

  I’D LIKE TO SAY I kept my eyes closed, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I heard the gritty sound of dirt beneath the soles of Vashet’s shoes and couldn’t help but open them.

  I didn’t peek. That would only make me seem childish. I simply opened my eyes and looked at her. She stared back, making more eye contact than I would get from Tempi in a span of days. Her pale grey eyes were hard in her delicate face. Her broken nose no longer looked out of place. It was a grim warning to the world.

  The wind swirled between us, raising gooseflesh on my naked arms.

  Vashet drew a resigned breath and shrugged, then flipped the wooden rod to grip the handle end. She hefted it thoughtfully with both hands, getting a feel for its weight. Then she brought it up to her shoulder and swung.

  Except she didn’t.

  “Fine!” she said, exasperated, throwing up her hands. “You twiggy little skeeth. Fine! Shit and onions. Put your shirt back on. You’re making me cold.”

  I sank down until I was sitting on the bench. “Thank God,” I said. I started to put my shirt back on, but it was difficult, as my hands were shaking. It wasn’t from the cold.

  Vashet saw. “I knew it!” she said triumphantly, pointing a finger at me. “You standing there like you’re ready to be hanged. I knew you were ready to run like a rabbit!” She stamped her foot in frustration. “I knew I should have taken a swing at you!”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” I said. I managed to get my shirt on, then realized it was inside out. I decided to leave it rather than drag it across my stinging back again.

  “What gave me away?” she demanded.

  “Nothing,” I said. “It was a masterful performance.”

  “Then how’d you know I wasn’t going to crack your skull open?”

  “I thought it through,” I said. “If Shehyn had really wanted me driven off, she could have just sent me packing. If she wanted me dead, she could have done that too.”

  I rubbed my sweaty hands on my pants. “That meant you were really meant to be my teacher. So there were only three sensible options.” I held up a finger. “This was a ritual initiation.” A second finger. “It was test of my resolve . . .”

  “Or I was really trying to run you off,” Vashet finished as she sat on the bench opposite me. “What if I’d been telling the truth and thumped you bloody?”

  I shrugged. “At least I’d have known. But it seemed like long odds that Shehyn would choose someone like that. If she’d wanted me beaten she could have let Carceret do it.” I cocked my head. “Out of curiosity, which was it? Initiation or test of resolve? Does everyone go through this?”

  She shook her head. “Resolve. I needed to make sure of you. I wasn’t going to waste my time teaching a coward or someone afraid of a little smack or two. I also needed to know you were dedicated.”

  I nodded. “That seemed the most likely. I thought I’d save myself several days of welts and force the issue.”

  Vashet gave me a long look, curiosity plain on her face. “I will admit, I’ve never had a student offer himself up for a vicious beating in order to prove he’s worth my time.”

  “This was nothing,” I said nonchalantly. “Once I jumped off a roof.”

  We spent an hour talking about small things, letting the tension between us slowly bleed away. She asked how exactly I’d come to be whipped, and I gave her the bones of the story, glad to have the chance to explain myself. I didn’t want her thinking of me as a criminal.

  Vashet examined my scars more closely afterward. “Whoever tended to you certainly knew their physic,” she said admiringly. “This is very clean work. As good as any I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’ll pass along your compliments,” I said.

  Her hand brushed gently along the edge of the hot welt that ran across the whole length of my back. “I’m sorry for this, by the way.”

  “It hurts worse than the whipping ever did, I’ll tell you that for free.”

  “It’ll be gone in a day or two,” she said. “Which isn’t to say you won’t be sleeping on your stomach tonight.” She helped me settle my shirt, then moved back to the other bench, facing me.

  I hesitated before saying, “No offense, Vashet. But you seem different from the other Adem I’ve met. Not that I’ve met many, mind you.”

  “You’re just hungry for familiar body language,” she said.

  “There is that,” I said. “But you seem more . . . expressive than the other Adem I’ve seen.” I pointed at my face.

  Vashet shrugged. “Where I’m from, we grow up speaking your language. And I spent four years as bodyguard and captain for a poet in the Small Kingdoms who also happened to be a king. I probably speak Aturan better than anyone in Haert. Including you.”

  I ignored the last. “You didn’t grow up here?”

  She shook her head. “I’m from Feant, a town farther north. We’re more . . . cosmopolitan. Haert only has the one school, and everyone is tied very tightly to it. The sword tree is one of the old paths, too. Rather formal. I grew up following the path of joy.”

  “There are other schools?”

  Vashet nodded. “This is one of the many schools that follow the Latantha, the path of the sword tree. It’s one of the oldest, behind the Aethe and Aratan. There are other paths, maybe three dozen. But some of those are very small, with only one or two schools teaching their Ketan.”

  “Is that why your sword is different?” I asked. “Did you bring it from your other school?”

  Vashet gave me a narrow look. “What do you know of my sword?”

  “You brought it out to trim the willow switch,” I said. “Tempi’s sword was well-made, but yours is different. The handle is worn, but the blade looks new.”

  She gave me a curious look. “Well you certainly have your eyes open, don’t you?”

  I shrugged.

  “Strictly speaking, it’s not my sword,” Vashet said. “It’s merely in my keeping. It is an old sword, and the blade is the oldest part of it. It was given to me by Shehyn herself.”

  “Is that why you came to this school?”

  Vashet shook her head. “No. Shehyn gave me the sword much later.” She reached back and touched the hilt fondly. “No. I came here because while the Latantha might be rather formal, they excel in the use of the sword. I had learned as much as I could from the path of joy. Three other schools refused me before Shehyn brought me in. She is a clever woman and realized there was something to be gained in teaching me.”

  “I guess we’re both lucky she has an open mind,” I said.

  “You more than me,” Vashet said. “There’s a certain amount of one-upsmanship among the different paths. When I joined the Latantha, it was a bit of a feather in Shehyn’s cap.”

  “It must have been hard,” I said. “Coming here and being the stranger to everyone.”

  Vashet shrugged, making her sword rise and fall on her shoulder. “At first,” she admitted. “But they recognize talent, and I have that to spare. Among those who study the path of joy, I was viewed as rather stiff and stodgy. But here I’m seen as somewhat wild.” She grinned. “It’s pleasant, like having a new set of clothes to wear.”

  “Does the path of joy also teach the Lethani?” I asked.

  Vashet laughed. “That is a matter of some considerable debate. The simple answer is yes. All Adem study the Lethani to some degree. Those in the schools especially. That said, the Lethani is open to a broad interpretation. What some schools cling to, others spurn.”

  She gave me a thoughtful look. “Is it true you said the Lethani comes from the same place as laughing?”

  I nodded.

  “That is a good answer,” she said. “My teacher in the path of joy once said that very thing to me.” Vashet frowned. “You look pensive when I say that. Why?”

  “I’d tell you,” I said. “But I don’t want you to think less of me.”

  “I think less of you for keeping something from your teac
her,” she said seriously. “There must be trust between us.”

  I sighed. “I am glad you like my answer. But honestly, I don’t know what it means.”

  “I didn’t ask you what it means,” she said easily.

  “It’s just a nonsense answer,” I said. “I know you all place great stock in the Lethani, but I don’t really understand it. I’ve just found a way to fake it.”

  Vashet smiled indulgently. “There is no pretending to understand the Lethani,” she said confidently. “It is like swimming. It is obvious to anyone watching if you really know the way of it.”

  “A person can pretend to swim too,” I pointed out. “I’ve simply been moving my arms and walking on the bottom of the river.”

  She gave me a curious look. “Very well then. How have you managed to fool us?”

  I explained Spinning Leaf to her. How I had learned to tip my thoughts into a light, empty, floating place where the answers to their questions came easily.

  “So you have stolen the answers from yourself,” she said with mock seriousness. “You have cleverly fooled us by pulling the answers from your own mind.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said, growing irritated. “I don’t have the slightest idea what the Lethani really is! It’s not a path, but it helps choose a path. It’s the simplest way, but it is not easy to see. Honestly, you people sound like drunk cartographers.”

  I regretted saying it as soon as it was out of my mouth, but Vashet merely laughed. “There are many drunks who are quite conversant with the Lethani,” she said. “Several legendarily so.”

  Seeing I was still agitated, she made a motion to calm me. “I don’t understand the Lethani either, not in a way that can be explained to another. The teaching of the Lethani is an art I do not possess. If Tempi has managed to instill the Lethani in you, it is a great mark in his favor.”