The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Then he said, “When I dream, I have two hands.”

  We finished the dishes together, sharing silence between us. Sometimes that is all you can share.

  Celean had a lesson of her own to teach me. Namely that there are opponents who will not hesitate to punch, kick, or elbow a man directly in his genitals.

  Never hard enough to permanently injure me, mind you. She’d been fighting her entire young life and had the control Vashet valued so highly. But that meant she knew exactly how hard to strike to leave me stunned and reeling, making her victory utterly unquestionable.

  So I sat on the grass, feeling grey and nauseous. After incapacitating me, Celean had given me a comforting pat on the shoulder before skipping blithely away. No doubt going to dance among the wind-tossed branches of the sword tree again.

  “You were doing well until the end,” Vashet said, lowering herself onto the ground across from me.

  I said nothing. Like a child playing find-and-catch, it was my sincere hope that if I closed my eyes and remained perfectly still, the pain wouldn’t be able to find me.

  “Come now, I saw her kick,” Vashet said dismissively. “It was not so hard as that.” I heard her sigh. “Still, if you need someone to look at them and make sure they are still intact. . . .”

  I chuckled slightly. It was a mistake. Unbelievable pain uncoiled in my groin, radiating down to my knee and up to my sternum. Nausea rolled over me, and I opened my eyes to steady myself.

  “She will grow out of it,” Vashet said.

  “I should hope so,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s a noxious habit.”

  “That is not what I meant,” Vashet said. “I mean she will grow taller. Hopefully then she will distribute her attentions more evenly across the body. Right now she attacks the groin too regularly. It makes her easy to predict and defend against.” She gave me a pointed look. “To anyone with a shred of wit.”

  I closed my eyes again. “No lessons right now, Vashet,” I begged. “I’m ready to vomit up yesterday’s breakfast.”

  She climbed to her feet. “It sounds like the perfect time for a lesson. Stand up. You should learn how to fight while wounded. This is an invaluable skill Celean has given you the chance to practice. You should thank her.”

  Knowing it was pointless to argue, I climbed to my feet and began to walk gingerly toward my training sword.

  Vashet caught me by the shoulder. “No. Hands only.”

  I sighed. “Must we, Vashet?”

  She raised an eyebrow at me. “Must we what?”

  “Must we focus always on hand fighting?” I said. “My swordplay is falling farther and farther behind.”

  “Am I not your teacher?” she asked. “Who are you to say what is best?”

  “I am the one who will have to use these skills out in the world,” I said pointedly. “And out in the world, I would rather fight with a sword than a fist.”

  Vashet lowered her hands, her expression blank. “And why is that?”

  “Because other people have swords,” I said. “And if I’m in a fight, I intend to win.”

  “Is winning a fight easier with a sword?” she asked.

  Vashet’s outward calm should have warned me I was stepping onto thin conversational ice, but I was distracted by the nauseating pain radiating from my groin. Though honestly, even if I hadn’t been distracted, it’s possible I wouldn’t have noticed. I had grown comfortable with Vashet, too comfortable to be properly careful.

  “Of course,” I said. “Why else carry a sword?”

  “That is a good question,” she said. “Why does one carry a sword?”

  “Why do you carry anything? So you can use it.”

  Vashet gave me a look of raw disgust. “Why do we bother to work on your language, then?” She asked angrily, reaching out to grab my jaw, pinching my cheeks and forcing my mouth open as if I were a patient in the Medica refusing my medicine. “Why do you need this tongue if a sword will do? Tell me that?”

  I tried to pull away, but she was stronger than me. I tried to push her away, but she shrugged my flailing hands away as if I were a child.

  Vashet let go of my face, then caught my wrist, jerking my hand up in front of my face. “Why do you have hands at all and not knives at the ends of your arms?”

  Then she let go of my wrist and struck me hard across the face with the flat of her hand.

  If I say she slapped me, you will take the wrong impression. This wasn’t the dramatic slap of the sort you see on a stage. Neither was it the offended, stinging slap a lady-in-waiting makes against the smooth skin of a too-familiar nobleman. It wasn’t even the more professional slap of a serving girl defending herself from the unwelcome attention of a grabby drunk.

  No. This was hardly any sort of slap at all. A slap is made with the fingers or the palm. It stings or startles. Vashet struck me with her open hand, but behind that was the strength of her arm. Behind that was her shoulder. Behind that was the complex machinery of her pivoting hips, her strong legs braced against the ground, and the ground itself beneath her. It was like the whole of creation striking me through the flat of her hand, and the only reason it didn’t cripple me is that even in the middle of her fury, Vashet was always perfectly in control.

  Because she was in control, Vashet didn’t dislocate my jaw or knock me unconscious. But it made my teeth rattle and my ears ring. It made my eyes roll in my head and my legs go loose and shaky. I would have fallen if Vashet hadn’t gripped me by the shoulder.

  “Do you think I am teaching you the secrets of the sword so you can go out and use them?” she demanded. I dimly realized she was shouting. It was the first time I had ever heard one of the Adem raise their voice. “Is that what you think we are doing here?”

  As I lolled in her grip, stupefied, she struck me again. This time her hand caught more of my nose. The pain of it was amazing, as if someone had driven a sliver of ice directly into my brain. It jolted me out of my daze so I was fully alert when she hit me the third time.

  Vashet held me for a moment while the world spun, then let go. I took one unsteady step and crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Not unconscious, but profoundly dazed.

  It took me a long time to collect myself. When I was finally able to sit up, my body felt loose and unwieldy, as if it had been taken apart and put back together again in a slightly different way.

  By the time I gathered my wits enough to look around, I was alone.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY

  Kindness

  TWO HOURS LATER I sat alone in the dining hall. My head ached, and the side of my face was hot and swollen. I’d bitten my tongue at some point, so it hurt to eat and everything tasted of blood. My mood was exactly what you might imagine, except worse.

  When I saw a red form slide onto the bench across from me, I dreaded looking up. If it was Carceret, it would be bad. But Vashet would be even worse. I had waited until the dining hall was almost empty before coming to eat, hoping to avoid them both.

  But glancing up, I saw it was Penthe, the fierce young woman who had beaten Shehyn.

  “Hello,” she said in lightly accented Aturan.

  I gestured, polite formal greeting. Considering the way my day was going, I thought it best to be as careful as possible. Vashet’s comments led me to believe Penthe was a high-ranking and well-respected member of the school.

  For all that, she wasn’t very old. Perhaps it was her small frame or her heart-shaped face, but she didn’t look much more than twenty.

  “Could we speak your language?” she asked in Aturan. “It would be a kindness. I am in need of practice with my talking.”

  “I will gladly join you,” I said in Aturan. “You speak very well. I am jealous. When I speak Ademic, I feel I am a great bear of a man, stomping around in heavy boots.”

  Penthe gave a small, shy smile, then covered her mouth with her hand, blushing slightly. “Is that correct, to smile?”

  “It is correct, and poli
te. A smile such as that shows a small amusement. Which is perfect, as mine was a very small joke.”

  Penthe removed her hand and repeated the shy smile. She was charming as spring flowers. It eased my heart to look at her.

  “Normally,” I said, “I would smile in answer to yours. But here, I worry others would view it as impolite.”

  “Please,” she said, making a series of gestures wide enough for anyone to see. Bold invitation. Imploring entreaty. Familiar welcome. “I must practice.”

  I smiled, though not quite as widely as I would have ordinarily. Partly out of caution, and partly because my face hurt. “It feels good to smile again,” I said.

  “I have anxiousness about my smiling.” She started to gesture and stopped herself. Her expression shifted, her eyes narrowing a bit, as if she were irritated.

  “This?” I asked, gesturing mild worry.

  She nodded. “How do you make that with the face?”

  “It is like this,” I drew my brows together slightly. “Also, as a woman, you would do this,” I pursed my lips slightly. “I would do this, as I am a man.” I drew my lips down into a small frown instead.

  Penthe looked at me blankly. Aghast. “It is different for men and women?” she asked, disbelief creeping into her tone.

  “Only some,” I reassured her. “And only small things.”

  “There is so much,” she said, allowing a note of despair into her voice. “With one’s family one knows what every small movement of face means. You grow up watching. You know the all of what is in them. Those friends you are young with, before you know better than to grin at everything. It is easy with them. But this . . .” She shook her head. “How can one possibly remember when to correctly show one’s teeth? How often am I supposed to touch eyes?”

  “I understand,” I said. “I am very good at speaking in my language. I can make the cleverest meanings. But here that is useless.” I sighed. “Keeping my face still is very hard. I feel I am always holding my breath.”

  “Not always,” she said. “We are not always still of the face. When you are with . . .” She trailed off, then quickly gestured, apology.

  “I have none I am close to,” I said. Gentle regret. “I had hoped I was growing close to Vashet, but I fear I ruined that today.”

  Penthe nodded. “I saw.” She reached out and ran her thumb along the side of my face. It felt cool against the swelling. “You must have angered her very.”

  “I can tell that by the ringing of my ears,” I said.

  Penthe shook her head. “No. Your marks.” She gestured to her own face this time. “With another, it might be a mistake, but Vashet would not leave such if she did not wish everyone to see.”

  The bottom dropped out of my stomach and my hand went unconsciously to my face. Of course. This wasn’t mere punishment. It was a message to all of Ademre.

  “Fool that I am,” I said softly. “I did not realize this until now.”

  We ate quietly for several minutes, before I asked, “Why did you come to sit with me today?”

  “When I saw you today, I thought I had heard many people speak about you. But I knew nothing of you from personal knowing.” A pause.

  “And what do others say?” I said with a small, wry smile.

  She reached out to touch the corner of my mouth with her fingertips. “That,” she said. “What is the bent smile?”

  Gentle mocking, I gestured in explanation. “But of myself, not you. I can guess what they say.”

  “Not all is bad,” she said gently.

  Penthe looked up at me and met my eyes then. They were huge in her small face, slightly darker grey than usual. They were so bright and clear that when she smiled, the sight of it almost broke my heart. I felt tears well up in my eyes and I quickly looked down, embarrassed.

  “Oh!” she said softly, and gestured a hurried distressed apology. “No. I am wrong with my smiling and eye touching. I meant this.” Kind encouragement.

  “You are right with your smiling,” I said without looking up, blinking furiously in an attempt to clear the tears away. “It is an unexpected kindness on a day when I do not deserve such a thing. You are the first to speak with me from your own desire. And there is a sweetness in your face that hurts my heart.” I made gratitude with my left hand, glad that I didn’t need to meet her eyes to show her how I felt.

  Her left hand crossed the table and caught hold of mine. Then she turned my hand face up and pressed comfort softly into my palm.

  I looked up and gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

  She mirrored it almost exactly, then covered her mouth again. “I maintain anxiousness about my smiling.”

  “You should not. You have the perfect mouth for smiling.”

  Penthe looked up at me again, her eyes meeting mine for a heartbeat before darting away. “True?”

  I nodded. “In my own language, it is a mouth I would write a—” I brought myself up short, sweating a bit when I realized I’d almost said “song.”

  “Poem?” she suggested helpfully.

  “Yes,” I said quickly. “It is a smile worthy of a poem.”

  “Make one then,” she said. “In my language.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “It would be a bear’s poem. Too clumsy for you.”

  This just seemed to spur her on, and her eyes grew eager. “Do. If it is clumsy, it will make me feel better of my own stumbling.”

  “If I do,” I threatened, “you must, too. In my language.”

  I’d thought this would scare her away, but after only a moment’s hesitation she nodded.

  I thought of the only Ademic poetry I had heard: a few snippets from the old silk spinner and the piece from the story Shehyn had told about the archer. It wasn’t much to go on.

  I thought of the words I knew, the sounds of them. I felt the absence of my lute sharply here. This is why we have music, after all. Words cannot always do the work we need them to. Music is there for when words fail us.

  Finally I looked around nervously, glad there were only a scattered handful of people left in the dining hall. I leaned toward her and said:Double-weaponed Penthe

  No sword in hand,

  Her flower-mouth curves,

  And cuts a heart a dozen steps away.

  She gave the smile again, and it was just as I said. I felt the sharpness of it in my chest. Felurian had had a beautiful smile, but it was old and knowing. Penthe’s smile was bright as a new penny. It was like cool water on my dry, tired heart.

  The sweet smile of a young woman. There is nothing better in the world. It is worth more than salt. Something in us sickens and dies without it. I am sure of this. Such a simple thing. How strange. How wonderful and strange.

  Penthe closed her eyes for a moment, her mouth moving silently as she chose the words of her own poem.

  Then she opened her eyes and spoke in Aturan.

  Burning as a branch,

  Kvothe speaks.

  But the mouth that threatens boots

  reveals a dancing bear.

  I smiled wide enough to make my face hurt. “It is lovely,” I said honestly. “It is the first poem anyone has ever made for me.”

  After my conversation with Penthe, I felt considerably better. I was uncertain as to whether or not we had been flirting, but that hardly mattered. It was enough for me to know there was at least one person in Haert who didn’t want me dead.

  I walked to Vashet’s house as I usually did after meals. Half of me hoped she would greet me, smiling and sarcastic, the morning’s unpleasantness put wordlessly behind us. The other half of me feared she would refuse to speak with me at all.

  As I came over the rise, I saw her sitting on a wooden bench outside her door. She leaned against the rough stone wall of her house, as if she were merely enjoying the afternoon sun. I drew a deep breath and let it out, feeling myself relax.

  But as I came closer, I saw her face. She was not smiling. Neither did she wear the impassive Adem mask. She watched
me approach, her expression hangman grim.

  I spoke as soon as I came close enough. “Vashet,” I said earnestly. “I’m—”

  Still sitting, Vashet held up her hand, and I stopped speaking as quickly as if she had struck me across the mouth. “Apology now is of little consequence,” she said, her voice flat and chill as slate. “Anything you say at this point cannot be trusted. You know I am well and truly angry, so you are in the grip of fear.

  “This means I cannot trust any word you say, as it comes from fear. You are clever, and charming, and a liar. I know you can bend the world with your words. So I will not listen.”

  She shifted her position on the bench, then continued. “Early on I noticed a gentleness in you. It is a rare thing in one so young, and it was a large piece of what convinced me you were worth teaching. But as the days pass, I glimpse something else. Some other face that is far from gentle. I have dismissed these as flickers of false light, thinking them the brags of a young man or the odd jokes of a barbarian.

  “But today as you spoke, it came to me that the gentleness was the mask. And this other half-seen face, this dark and ruthless thing, that is the true face hiding underneath.”

  Vashet gave me a long look. “There is something troubling inside you. Shehyn has seen it in your conversations. It is not a lack of the Lethani. But this makes my unease more, not less. That means there is something in you deeper than the Lethani. Something the Lethani cannot mend.”

  She met my eye. “If this is the case, then I have been wrong to teach you. If you have been clever enough to show me a false face for so long, then you are a danger to more than just the school. If this is the case, then Carceret is right, and you should be killed swiftly for the safety of everyone involved.”

  Vashet came to her feet, moving as if she were very tired. “This I have thought today. And I will continue to think for long hours tonight. Tomorrow I will have decided. Take this time to order your thoughts and make whatever preparations seem best to you.”