The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  It quickly became obvious that what Vashet had in mind was not an afternoon of twining idly in the shade. To say she was businesslike would be a great disservice to her, as Vashet’s laughter always ran very close to the surface. But she was not flirtatious or coy.

  She stripped off her mercenary reds without the least fanfare or teasing, revealing a few scars, and a body hard and lean and corded with muscle. Which isn’t to say that she wasn’t also round and soft as well. Then she teased me for staring as if I’d never seen a naked woman before, when the truth was I’d simply never seen one standing full naked in the sunlight.

  When I didn’t undress fast enough to suit her, Vashet laughed and mocked my bashfulness. Stepping close, she stripped me naked as a plucked chicken, then kissed me on the mouth, her warm skin pressing against the entire front of my body.

  “I’ve never kissed a woman my own height before,” I mused when we stopped for a breath. “It’s a different experience.”

  “See how I continue to be your teacher in all things?” she said. “Your next lesson is this: all women are the same height lying down. The same cannot be said for your sort, of course. Too much depends on a man’s mood and his natural gifts.”

  Vashet took my hand and brought us both to lie on the soft moss. “There,” she said. “As I suspected. Now you are taller than me. Does this set you at your ease?”

  It did.

  I was prepared for things to be awkward after Vashet and I returned from the bushes, and was surprised to find they were nothing of the sort. She did not suddenly grow flirtatious, which I wouldn’t have known how to cope with. Neither did she feel obliged to treat me with any newfound tenderness. This became clear somewhere around the fifth time she managed to lure me off my guard, catch me with Thunder Upward, and throw me roughly to the ground.

  In all, she acted as if nothing odd at all had happened. Which meant either nothing odd had happened or something very odd had happened and she was pointedly ignoring it.

  Which meant that everything was lovely, or everything was going terribly wrong.

  Later, as I ate supper alone, I rolled what I knew of the Adem around in my head. No nudity taboo. They didn’t consider physical contact particularly intimate. Vashet had been very casual both before, during, and after our encounter.

  I thought back to the naked couple I had stumbled onto several days ago. They had been startled, but not embarrassed.

  Sex was viewed differently here, obviously. But I didn’t know any of the specific differences. That meant I didn’t have the first idea of how to conduct myself properly. And that meant what I was doing was dangerous as walking around blind. More like running blind, really.

  Normally if I had a question about the Adem culture, I asked Vashet. She was my touchstone. But I could imagine too many ways for that conversation to go astray, and her goodwill was all that stood between me and the loss of my fingers.

  By the time I finished eating, I’d decided it would be best to simply follow Vashet’s lead. She was my teacher, after all.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN

  Barbarian Cunning

  THE DAYS PASSED QUICKLY, as days tend to do when there is much to fill them. Vashet continued to teach me, and I turned the whole of my attention toward being a clever and attentive student.

  Our amorous encounters continued, punctuating my training. I never initiated them directly, but Vashet could tell when I was unproductively distracted and was quick to pull me down into the bushes. “In order to clear your foolish barbarian head,” as she said.

  Before and afterward I still found these encounters troubling. During, however, I was far from anxious. Vashet seemed to enjoy herself as well.

  That said, she didn’t seem the least interested in much of what I had learned from Felurian. She had no interest in playing ivy, and while she did enjoy thousand hands, she had little patience for it, and it usually ended up being more like seventy-five hands. Generally speaking, as soon as we had caught our breath, Vashet was tying on her mercenary reds and reminding me that if I kept forgetting to turn my heel out, I would never be able to hit any harder than a boy of six.

  Not all my time was spent training with Vashet. When she was busy, she set me to practice the Ketan, consider the Lethani, or watch the other students spar.

  There were a few afternoons or evenings when Vashet simply sent me on my way. So I explored the surrounding town and discovered Haert was much larger than I’d originally assumed. The difference was that all its houses and shops weren’t huddled together in a knot. They were scattered over several square miles of rocky hillside.

  I found the baths early on. By which I mean, I was pointedly directed there by Vashet with instructions to wash off my barbarian stink.

  They were a marvel. A sprawling stone building built on the top of what I guessed was either a natural hot spring or some marvelously engineered plumbing. There were large rooms full of water and small rooms full of steam. Rooms with deep pools for soaking, and rooms with great brass tubs for scrubbing. There was even one room with a pool big enough for swimming.

  All through the building, the Adem mingled without any regard for age, gender, or state of undress. This didn’t surprise me nearly as much as it would have a month ago, but it still took a great deal of getting used to.

  At first I found it hard not to stare at the breasts of the naked women. Then, when some of that novelty faded, I found it hard not to stare at the scars that crossed the bodies of mercenaries. It was easy to tell who had taken the red even when their clothes were off.

  Rather than fight my urge to gawk, I found it easier to go early in the morning or late at night when the baths were largely empty. Coming and going at odd hours wasn’t difficult, as there was no lock on the door. It was open at all hours for anyone to use. Soap and candles and towels were available for the taking. The baths, Vashet told me, were maintained by the school.

  I found the smithy by following the noise of ringing iron. The man working there was pleasantly talkative. He was glad to show me his tools and tell me the names for them in Ademic.

  Once I knew to look, I saw there were signs above the doors of the stores. Pieces of wood carved or painted to show what was sold inside: bread, herbs, barrel staves.... None of the signs had words, which was fortunate for me, as I had no idea how to read Ademic.

  I visited an apothecary where I was told I was not welcome, and a tailor where I was greeted warmly. I spent some of the three royals I’d stolen to buy two new sets of clothes, as those I had with me were showing their miles. I bought shirts and pants in muted colors after the local fashion, hoping they might help me fit in just a little better.

  I also spent many hours watching the sword tree. At first I did this under Vashet’s direction, but before long I found myself drawn back when I had time of my own to spend. Its motions were hypnotic, comforting. At times it seemed the branches wrote against the sky, spelling the name of the wind.

  True to her word, Vashet found me a sparring partner.

  “Her name is Celean,” Vashet told me over breakfast. “Your first meeting will be at the sword tree at midday. You should take this morning to prepare yourself however you think is best.”

  At last. A chance to prove myself. A chance to match wits with someone at my own level of skill. A real contest.

  I was at the sword tree early, of course, and when I first saw them approaching, I had a moment of confused panic when I thought the small figure at Vashet’s side was Penthe, the woman who had beaten Shehyn.

  Then I realized it couldn’t be Penthe. The figure approaching with Vashet was short, but the wind revealed a straight, lean body with none of Penthe’s curves. What’s more, the figure wore a shirt of bright cornsilk yellow, not mercenary red.

  I fought down a stab of disappointment, even though I knew it was foolish. Vashet had said she had found a fair fight for me. Obviously it couldn’t be someone who had already taken the red.

  They came closer st
ill, and my excitement guttered and died.

  It was a little girl. Not even a young girl of fourteen or so. It was a little girl, no more than ten by my best guess. She was skinny as a twig and so short her head barely made it up to my breastbone. Her grey eyes were huge in her tiny face.

  I was humiliated. The only thing that kept me from crying out in protest was the fact that I knew Vashet would find it unspeakably rude.

  “Celean, this is Kvothe,” Vashet said in Ademic.

  This young girl looked me up and down appraisingly, then took an unconscious half-step closer. A compliment. She considered me enough of a threat that she wanted to be close enough to strike at me if necessary. It was closer than an adult would have stood, because she was shorter.

  Polite greeting, I gestured.

  Celean returned my gesture. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed the angle of her hands implied polite nonsubordinate greeting.

  If Vashet saw it, she made no comment. “It is my desire that the two of you fight.”

  Celean looked me over again, her narrow face set in the typical Adem impassivity. The wind blew at her hair, and I could see a half-healed cut running from above her eyebrow up into her hairline.

  “Why?” the girl asked calmly. She didn’t seem afraid. It sounded more as if she couldn’t think of the least reason she would want to fight me.

  “Because there are things you can learn from each other,” Vashet said. “And because I say you will.”

  Vashet gestured to me: Attend. “Celean’s Ketan is quite exceptional. She has years of experience, and is easily the match of any two girls her size.”

  Vashet tapped Celean on the shoulder twice. Caution. “Kvothe, on the other hand, is new to the Ketan and has much to learn. But he is stronger than you, and taller, with a better reach. He also possesses a barbarian’s cunning.”

  I looked at Vashet, unsure if she were poking fun at me or not.

  “Also,” Vashet continued to Celean, “you will very likely have your mother’s height when you are grown, so you should practice fighting those larger than yourself.” Attend. “Lastly, he is new to our language, and for this you will not mock him.”

  The girl nodded. I noticed Vashet hadn’t specified I couldn’t be mocked for other reasons.

  Vashet straightened and spoke formally. “Nothing with the intention to injure.” She held up fingers, marking the rules she had taught me when we started hand fighting. “You may strike hard, but not viciously. Be careful of the head and neck, and nothing at all toward the eyes. You are each responsible for the other’s safety. If one of you gains a solid submission against the other, do not attempt to break it. Signal fairly and count it the end of the bout.”

  “I know this,” Celean said. Irritation.

  “It bears repeating,” Vashet said. Stern rebuke. “Losing a fight is forgivable. Losing your temper is not. This is why I have brought you here instead of some little boy. Did I choose wrongly?”

  Celean looked down. Apologetic regret. Embarrassed acceptance.

  Vashet addressed us both. “Injuring another through carelessness is not of the Lethani.”

  I couldn’t see how my beating up a ten-year-old girl was of the Lethani either, but I knew better than to say so.

  And with that, Vashet left us alone, walking to a stone bench some forty feet away where another woman in mercenary reds was sitting. Celean made a complicated gesture I didn’t recognize toward Vashet’s back.

  Then the young girl turned to face me, looking me up and down. “You are the first barbarian I have fought,” she said after a long moment. “Are you all red?” She lifted her hand to her own hair to clarify her meaning.

  I shook my head. “Not many of us.”

  She hesitated, then reached out her hand. “Can I touch it?”

  I almost smiled at this, but caught myself. I ducked my head a bit and bent down so she could reach.

  Celean ran her hand through my hair, then rubbed some between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s soft.” She gave a little laugh. “But it looks like metal.”

  She let go of my hair and stepped back to a formal distance again. She gestured polite thanks, then brought up her hands. “Are you ready?”

  I nodded uncertainly, bringing up my own hands.

  I wasn’t ready. Celean darted forward, catching me flat-footed. Her arm drove out in a punch straight toward my groin. Raw instinct made me crouch so it struck my stomach instead.

  Luckily, by this point I knew how to take a punch, and a month of hard training had made my stomach a sheet of muscle. Still, it felt like someone had thrown a rock at me, and I knew I’d have a bruise by dinner.

  I got my feet under me and flicked an exploratory kick at her. I wanted to see how skittish she was, and hoped to make her back away so I could get my balance settled and make better use of my longer reach.

  It turned out Celean wasn’t skittish at all. She didn’t back away. Instead she slipped alongside my leg and struck me squarely in the thick knot of muscle directly above the knee.

  Because of this I couldn’t help but stagger when my foot came back down, leaving me off balance with Celean close enough to climb me if she wanted. She set her hands together, braced her feet, and struck me with Threshing Wheat. The force of it knocked me over backward.

  Given the thick grass, it wasn’t a hard landing. I rolled to get some distance and came back to my feet. Celean chased me and made Thrown Lightning. She was fast, but I had longer legs, and managed to back away or block everything she threw. She faked a kick and I fell for it, giving her the opportunity to hit me right above the knee in the same place as before.

  It hurt, but I didn’t stagger this time, instead stepping sideways and away. Still she followed me, relentless and overeager. And in her haste she left an opening.

  But despite the bruises and the fall she’d already given me, I couldn’t bring myself to throw a punch at such a tiny girl. I knew how solidly I could hit Tempi or Vashet. But Celean was such a tiny twig of a thing. I worried I would hurt her. Hadn’t Vashet said we were responsible for each other’s safety?

  So instead I grabbed her with Climbing Iron. My left hand missed, but the long, strong fingers of my right hand wrapped all the way around her slender wrist. I didn’t have her in the proper submission, but now it was a game of strength, and I couldn’t help but win. I already had her wrist, all that remained was to grip her shoulder and I’d have her in Sleeping Bear before—

  Celean made Break Lion. But it wasn’t the version I had learned. Hers used both hands, striking and twisting so quickly that my hand was stinging and empty before I could think. Then she grabbed my wrist and pulled, lashing out to kick my leg in a fluid motion. I leaned, buckled, and she stretched me out flat above the ground.

  This landing wasn’t soft, more a jarring flop onto the grass. It didn’t completely stun me, but that didn’t matter because Celean simply reached out and tapped my head twice. Signaling that if she’d wanted to, she could easily have knocked me unconscious.

  I rolled into a sitting position, aching in several places and with a sprained pride. It wasn’t badly sprained though. My time with Tempi and Vashet had taught me to appreciate skill, and Celean’s Ketan truly was excellent.

  “I’ve never seen that version of Break Lion before,” I said.

  Celean grinned. It was only a small grin, but it still showed a glimpse of her white teeth. In the world of Adem impassivity, it was like the sun coming from behind a cloud. “That is mine,” she said. Extreme pride. “I made it. I am not strong enough to use regular Break Lion against my mother or anyone your size.”

  “Would you show it to me?” I asked.

  Celean hesitated, then nodded and stepped forward, holding out her hand. “Grab my wrist.”

  I took hold of it, gripping firmly but not fiercely.

  She did it again, like a magic trick. Both of her hands moved in a flurry of motion, and I was left with a stinging, empty hand.

 
I reached out again. Amusement. “I have slow barbarian eyes. Could you make it again so I can learn it?”

  Celean stepped back, shrugging. Indifference. “Am I your teacher? Should I give something of mine to a barbarian who cannot even strike me in a fight?” She lifted her chin and looked off toward the spinning sword tree, but her eyes darted back to me, playfully.

  I chuckled and came to my feet, bringing up my hands again.

  She laughed and turned to face me. “Go!”

  This time I was ready, and I knew what Celean was capable of. She was no sort of delicate flower. She was quick and fearless and aggressive.

  So I went on the offensive, taking advantage of my long arms and legs. I struck out with Dancing Maiden, but she skipped away. No. It would be better to say she slid away from me, never compromising her balance in the least, her feet weaving smoothly through the long grass.

  Then she changed directions suddenly, catching me between steps and slightly off my stride. She feigned a punch at my groin, then pushed me slightly off balance with Turning Millstone. I staggered but managed to keep my feet beneath me.

  I tried to regain my balance, but she brushed me again with Turning Millstone, then again. And again. Each time only shoving me a few inches, but it kept me in a helpless stumbling retreat until she managed to plant her foot behind mine, tripping me and sending me flat onto my back.

  Before I’d finished striking the ground she already had hold of my wrist, and soon had my arm tangled firmly in Ivy on the Oak. This pressed my face into the grass while putting uncomfortable pressure against my wrist and shoulder.

  For a second I considered trying to struggle free, but only for a second. I was stronger than she was, but the whole point of positions like Ivy on the Oak and Sleeping Bear is to put pressure on the fragile parts of the body. You did not need a great deal of strength to attack the branch.