The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  After lunch Vashet took me back to Magwyn’s cave. My teacher’s mood seemed somewhat improved, but she was still far from her regular gregarious self.

  “Magwyn will be giving you Saicere’s story,” she said. “You must memorize it.”

  “Its story?” I asked.

  Vashet shrugged. “In Ademic it is Atas. It is the history of your sword. Everyone who has carried it. What they have done. It is something you must know.”

  We reached the top of the path and stood before Magwyn’s door. Vashet gave me a serious look. “You must be on your best behavior and be very polite.”

  “I will,” I said.

  “Magwyn is an important person, and you must attend closely to what she says.”

  “I will,” I said.

  Vashet knocked on the door and escorted me in.

  Magwyn sat at the same table as before. For all I could tell, she was copying the same book. She smiled when she saw Vashet, then noticed me and let her face slide into the familiar Adem impassivity.

  “Magwyn,” Vashet said. Profoundly polite entreaty. “This one needs the Atas of his sword.”

  “Which sword did you find for him?” Magwyn asked, her face wrinkling even further as she squinted to see.

  “Saicere,”Vashet said.

  Magwyn gave a laugh that was almost a cackle. She got down off her chair. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said, and disappeared through a door that led back into the cliff.

  Vashet let herself out, and I stood there feeling awkward, like one of those terrible dreams when you’re on stage and can’t remember what to say, or even what part you were meaning to play.

  Magwyn returned, carrying a thick book bound in brown leather. At a gesture from her, we took seats in chairs facing each other. Hers was a deeply cushioned leather chair. Mine was not. I sat with Caesura across my knees. Partly because it seemed appropriate, and partly because I was fond of the feel of it beneath my hand.

  She opened the book, the binding crackling as she spread it open on her lap. She flipped pages for a moment until she found the place she was looking for. “First came Chael,” she read. “Who shaped me in fire for an unknown purpose. He carried me then cast me aside.”

  Magwyn looked up, unable to gesture as her hands were both occupied by the large book. “Well?” she demanded.

  “What would you like me to do?” I asked politely. I couldn’t gesture due to my bandages. We made a fine pair of half-mutes.

  “Repeat it back,” she said, irritated. “You need to learn them all.”

  “First came Chael,” I said. “Who shaped me in fire for an unknown purpose. He carried me then cast me aside.”

  She nodded and continued. “Next came Etaine . . .”

  I repeated it. We continued this way for perhaps a half hour. Owner after owner. Name after name. Loyalties declaimed and enemies killed.

  At first the names and places were tantalizing. Then, as it continued, the list began to depress me, as nearly each piece ended with the death of the owner. They were not peaceful deaths either. Some died in wars, some in duels. Many were merely “killed by” or “slain by,” giving no clue as to the circumstances. After thirty of these, I had heard nothing resembling, “Passed from this world peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by fat grandchildren.”

  Then the list stopped being depressing and became simply boring instead.

  “Next came Finol of the clear and shining eye,” I repeated attentively. “Much beloved of Dulcen. She herself slew two daruna, then was killed by gremmen at the Drossen Tor.”

  I cleared my throat before Magwyn could recite another passage. “If I may ask,” I said. “How many have carried Caesura over the years?”

  “Saicere,” she corrected me sharply. “Do not presume to meddle with her name. It means to break, to catch, and to fly.”

  I looked down at the sheathed sword across my lap. I felt the weight of it, the chill of the metal under my fingers. A small sliver of the smooth grey blade was visible above the top of the sheath.

  How can I say this so you can understand? Saicere was a fine name. It was thin and bright and dangerous. It fit the sword like a glove fits a hand.

  But it wasn’t the perfect name. This sword’s name was Caesura. This sword was the jarring break in a line of perfect verse. It was the broken breath. It was smooth and swift and sharp and deadly. The name didn’t fit like a glove. It fit like skin. More than that. It was bone and muscle and movement. Those things are the hand. And Caesura was the sword. It was the both the name and the thing itself.

  I can’t tell you how I knew this. But I knew it.

  Besides, if I was to be a namer, I decided I could damn well choose the name of my own sword.

  I looked up at Magwyn. “It is a good name,” I agreed politely, deciding to keep my opinion to myself until I was well gone from Ademre. “I am only wondering how many owners there have been entirely. That is something I should know as well.”

  Magwyn gave me a sour look that said she knew I was patronizing her. But she flipped ahead several pages in her book. Then a few more.

  Then a few more.

  “Two hundred and thirty-six,” she said. “You will be the two hundred thirty-seventh.” She flipped back to the beginning of the list. “Let us begin again.” She drew a breath and said. “First came Chael, who shaped me in fire for an unknown purpose. He carried me then cast me aside.”

  I fought down the urge to sigh. Even with my trouper’s knack for learning lines it would take long, weary days setting them all to memory.

  Then I realized what this truly meant. If each owner had kept Caesura for ten years, and it had never sat idle for longer than a day or two, that meant Caesura was, at a very conservative estimate, more than two thousand years old.

  I received my next surprise three hours later when I tried to excuse myself for supper. As I stood to leave Magwyn explained I was to remain with her until I learned all of Caesura’s story by heart. Someone would bring us our meals, and there was a room nearby where I could sleep.

  First came Chael . . .

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX

  The First Stone

  I SPENT THE NEXT THREE days with Magwyn. It wasn’t bad, especially considering my left hand was still healing, so my ability to talk and fight was rather limited.

  I like to think I did rather well. It would have been easier for me to memorize an entire play than this. A play fits together like a jigsaw. Dialogue moves back and forth. There is a shape to a story.

  But what I learned from Magwyn was merely a long string of unfamiliar names and unconnected events. It was a laundry list masquerading as a story.

  Still, I learned it all by heart. It was late in the evening of the third day when I recited it back flawlessly to Magwyn. The hardest part was not singing it as I recited. Music carries words over miles and into hearts and memories. Committing Caesura’s history to memory had been much easier when I’d started fitting it to the tune of an old Vintish ballad in my head.

  The next morning Magwyn demanded I recite it again. After I made it through a second time, she scribbled a note to Shehyn, sealed it in wax, and shooed me out of her cave.

  “We had not expected Magwyn to be finished with you for several days yet,” Shehyn said, reading the note. “Vashet took a trip to Feant and will not be back for at least two days.”

  That meant I had memorized the Atas twice as quickly as their best estimate. I felt more than a little pride in that.

  Shehyn glanced at my left hand and gave the barest frown. “When did you have your dressings removed?” she asked.

  “I could not find you at first,” I said. “So I went to visit Daeln. He said it has healed quite nicely.” I flexed my newly unbandaged left hand and gestured joyful relief. “There is hardly any stiffness in the skin, and he reassures me even that will fade soon with proper care.”

  I looked at Shehyn, expecting to see some gesture of approval or satisfaction. Instead I saw exaspe
rated irritation.

  “Have I done something wrong?” I asked. Confused regret. Apology.

  Shehyn motioned to my hand. “It could have been a convenient excuse to postpone your stone trial,” she said. Irritated resignation. “Now we must go ahead with it today, Vashet or no.”

  I felt a familiar anxiety settle back onto me, like a dark bird clenching its claws deep into the muscles of my neck and shoulders. I’d thought the tedium of memorization had been the last of it, but apparently the final shoe was yet to drop. I didn’t like the sound of the term “stone trial,” either.

  “Return here after midday meal.” Shehyn said. Dismissal.“Go. I have much to prepare before then.”

  I went looking for Penthe. With Vashet gone, she was the only one I knew well enough to ask about the upcoming trial.

  But she wasn’t in her house, the school, or the baths. Eventually I gave up, stretched, and rehearsed my Ketan, first with Caesura, then without. Then I made my way to the baths and scrubbed away three days of sitting and doing nothing.

  Shehyn was waiting for me when I returned after lunch, holding her carved wooden sword. She looked at my empty hands and made an exasperated gesture. “Where is your dueling sword?”

  “In my room,” I said. “I did not know I would need it.”

  “Run fetch it,” she said. “Then meet me at the stone hill.”

  “Shehyn,” I said. Urgent imploring. “I don’t know where that is. I don’t know anything about the stone trial.”

  Surprise. “Vashet never told you?” Disbelief.

  I shook my head. Sincere apology. “We were focused on other things.”

  Exasperation. “It is simple enough,” she said. “First you will recite Saicere’s Atas for all gathered. Then you will climb the hill. At the first stone, you will fight one from the school who is ranked of the first stone. If you win, you will continue to climb and fight someone of the second stone.”

  Shehyn looked at me. “In your case, this is a formality. Occasionally a student enters the school with exceptional talent. Vashet was one such as this, and she gained the second stone at her first trial.” Blunt honesty. “You are not such a one. Your Ketan is still poor, and you cannot expect to gain even the first stone. The stone hill is east of the baths.” She flicked her hand at me: Hurry.

  There was a crowd gathered at the foot of the stone hill by the time I arrived, more than a hundred people. Grey homespun and muted colors vastly outnumbered mercenary red, and the low murmur of the crowd’s conversation was audible from a distance.

  The hill itself wasn’t particularly high, nor was it steep. But the path to the top cut back and forth in a series of switchbacks. At each corner there was a wide, flat space with a large block of grey stone. There were four corners, four stones, and four red-shirted mercenaries. At the top of the hill stood a tall greystone, familiar as a friend. Beside that stood a small figure in blinding white.

  As I came closer, I caught a smell drifting on the breeze: toasted chestnuts. Only then did I relax. This was pageantry of a sort. While “stone trial” had an intimidating sound to it, I doubted very much that I was going to be brutalized in front of a milling audience while someone sold roasted nuts.

  I entered the crowd and approached the hill. I could see it was Shehyn next to the greystone. I also recognized the heart-shaped face and long, hanging braid of Penthe at the third stone.

  The crowd parted gently as I walked to the foot of the hill. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blood-red figure rushing toward me. Alarmed, I turned and saw it was none other than Tempi. He hurried toward me, gesturing a broad enthusiastic greeting.

  I fought the urge to smile and shout his name, settling instead on a gesture of joyful excitement.

  He came to stand directly in front of me, gripping me by my shoulder and jostling me around playfully, as if congratulating me. But his eyes were intense. Close to his chest his hand said, deception where only I could see. “Listen,” he spoke quickly under his breath. “You cannot win this fight.”

  “Don’t worry.” Reassurance. “Shehyn thinks the same, but I might surprise you.”

  Tempi’s grip on my shoulder grew painfully tight. “Listen,” he hissed. “Look who is at the first stone.”

  I looked over his shoulder. It was Carceret. Her eyes were like knives.

  “She is full of rage,” Tempi said quietly, gesturing fond affection for the crowd to see. “As if your admittance to the school was not enough, you have been given her mother’s sword.”

  That piece of news knocked the wind out of me. My mind flickered to the final piece of the Atas. “Larel was Carceret’s mother?” I asked.

  Tempi ran his right hand affectionately through my hair. “Yes. She is enraged past reason. I fear she would gladly cripple you, even if it means being thrown from the school.”

  I nodded seriously.

  “She will try to disarm you. Be wary of it. Do not grapple. If she catches you with Sleeping Bear or Circling Hands, submit quickly. Shout it if you must. If you hesitate or try to break away, she will shatter your arm or pull it from your shoulder. I heard her say this to her sister not an hour ago.”

  Suddenly, Tempi stepped away from me and gestured deferential respect.

  I felt a tapping at my arm and turned to see Magwyn’s wrinkled face. “Come,” she said with quiet authority. “It is time.”

  I fell into step behind her. As we walked, everyone in the crowd gestured some manner of respect toward her. Magwyn led me to the beginning of the path. There was a block of grey stone, slightly taller than my knee and identical to the others at each corner of the path.

  The old woman gestured for me to climb up onto the stone. I looked out over the group of Adem and had an unprecedented moment of stage fright.

  Bending a bit, I spoke softly to Magwyn. “Is it appropriate for me to raise my voice when reciting this?” I asked her nervously. “I do not mean to be offensive, but if I do not, those in the back will not be able to hear.”

  Magwyn smiled at me for the first time, her wrinkled face suddenly sweet. She patted my hand. “No one will be offended at a loud voice here,” she said, gesturing considerate moderation. “Give.”

  I unbuckled Saicere and handed it over. Then Magwyn urged me onto the stone.

  I recited the Atas while Magwyn watched. Though I was confident of my memory, it was still nerve-wracking. I wondered what would happen if I skipped an owner or misplaced a name.

  It took the better part of an hour before I was done, the audience of Adem listening with an almost eerie quiet. When I finished, Magwyn offered her hand, helping me down from the stone as if I were a lady descending from a carriage. Then she gestured up the hill.

  I wiped the sweat from my hand and gripped the wooden hilt of my dueling sword as I started up the path. Carceret’s reds were strapped tightly across her long arms and broad shoulders. The leather straps she used were wider and thicker than Tempi’s. They looked to be a brighter red, too, and I wonder if she had dyed them especially for today. As I came closer, I saw she had the fading remains of a black eye.

  Once she saw I was watching, Carceret tossed her wooden sword away in a slow, deliberate motion. She gestured disdain broadly enough so they could see it in the ha’penny seats at the back of the crowd.

  There was a murmur from the crowd and I stopped walking, uncertain what to do. After a moment’s thought, I lay my own training sword down by the side of the path and continued to walk.

  Carceret waited in the center of a flat, grassy circle about thirty feet across. The ground was soft here, so I wouldn’t ordinarily worry about being thrown. Ordinarily. Vashet had taught me the difference between throwing someone to the ground and throwing someone at the ground. The first was what you did during a polite bout. The second was what you would use in a true fight where the intention was to maim or kill your opponent.

  Before I came too close, I fell into the now-familiar fighter’s crouch. I raised my hands, bent my knees, and
fought the urge to rise up onto the balls of my feet, knowing I would feel quicker, and ruin my balance as a result. I took a deep, steadying breath and slowly moved toward her.

  Carceret fell into a similar crouch, and just as I was coming to the outside limits of her reach, she made a feint toward me. It was only a slight twitch of the hand and shoulder, but, anxious as I was, I fell for it wholeheartedly and skittered away like a startled rabbit.

  Carceret lowered her hands and stood up straight, abandoning her fighting crouch. Amusement, she gestured broadly, invitation. Then she beckoned with both hands. I heard a few pieces of laughter drift up from the crowd below.

  Humiliating as her attitude was, I was eager to take advantage of her lowered guard. I moved forward and made a cautious attempt at Hands like Knives. Too cautious, and she stepped away from it without even needing to lift her hands.

  I knew I was outclassed as a fighter. That meant my only hope was to play on her already hot emotions. If I could infuriate her, she might make mistakes. If she made mistakes, I might be able to win. “First came Chael,” I said, giving her my widest, most barbaric smile.

  Carceret took a half step closer. “I am going to crush your pretty hands,” she hissed in perfect Aturan. As she spoke she reached out and made a vicious gripping motion at me.

  She was trying to scare me, make me recoil and lose my balance. And honestly, the raw venom in her voice made me want to do just that.

  But I was ready. I resisted my reflex to pull back. In doing so I froze for a moment, neither retreating nor advancing.

  Of course, this is what Carceret was truly waiting for, a half-moment’s hesitation as I fought the urge to flee. She closed on me in a single easy step and caught my wrist, her hand tight as a band of iron.

  Without thinking, I used Celean’s curious two-handed version of Break Lion. Perfect for a small girl struggling against a grown man, or a hopelessly outclassed musician trying to escape an Adem mercenary.