The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  “You hardly need to be reminded,” Simmon said.

  “Everyone needs to be reminded,” she said. “But with Kvothe it’s different. He’s so serious about it. When he looks at you, you can tell his whole attention is focused on you.” She laughed at my uncomfortable expression. “It’s one of the things I liked about you when we met.”

  Simmon’s expression darkened, and I tried to look as nonthreatening as possible.

  “But since you came back it’s almost physical,” Fela said. “Now when you look at me, there’s something happening behind your eyes. Something all sweet fruit, shadows, and lamplight. Something wild that faerie maidens run from underneath a violet sky. It’s a terrible thing, really. I like it.” As she said the last, she squirmed slightly in her seat, a wicked glitter in her eye.

  It was too much for Simmon. He pushed his chair away from the table and started to get to his feet, making inarticulate gestures. “Fine then . . . I’ll just . . . fine.”

  “Oh sweetling,” Fela said, laying a hand on his arm. “Hush. It’s not like that.”

  “Don’t hush me,” he snapped, but he stayed in his chair.

  Fela ran her hand through the hair on the back of Sim’s neck. “It’s nothing you need to worry over.” She laughed as if the thought was ridiculous. “You have me tied to you more tightly than you know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a little flattery from time to time.”

  Sim glowered.

  “Should I cloister myself then?” Fela asked. Irritation crept into her voice, bringing with it the barest lilt of her Modegan accent. “You know how you feel when Mola takes the time to flirt with you?” Simmon gaped and looked as if he were trying to go pale and blush at the same time. Fela laughed at his bewilderment. “Tiny Gods, Sim. Do you think I’m blind? It’s a sweet thing, and it makes you feel good. What’s the harm in it?”

  There was a pause. “Nothing, I suppose,” Sim said finally. Looking up, he gave me a shaky grin and brushed his hair back from his eyes. “Just don’t ever give me the look she mentioned, okay?” His grin widened, became more genuine. “I don’t know if I could handle it.”

  I grinned back at him without thinking of it. Sim could always make me smile.

  “Besides,” Fela said to him. “You’re perfect just the way you are.” She kissed his ear as if to put the seal on his improving mood, then turned back to me. “On the other hand, you couldn’t pay me enough to get tangled up with you,” she said flatly.

  “What do you mean?” I demanded. “What about my look? My dark faerie whateverness?”

  “Oh, you’re fascinating. But a girl wants more than that. She wants a man devoted to her.”

  I shook my head. “I refuse to throw myself at her like every other man she’s ever met. She hates it. I’ve seen what happens.”

  “Have you ever thought she might feel the same way?” Fela asked. “You do have something of a reputation with the ladies.”

  “Should I cloister myself then?” I said, repeating what she’d said to Sim, though it came out sharper than I’d intended. “Blackened body of God, I’ve seen her on the arms often dozen men! Suddenly it’s offensive to her if I take another woman out to see a play?”

  Fela gave me a frank look. “You’ve been doing more than going for carriage rides. Women talk.”

  “Wonderful. And what do they say?” I asked bitterly, looking down at my soup.

  “That you’re charming,” she said easily. “And polite. You don’t have wandering hands, which is actually a source of frustration in some cases, apparently.” She smiled a little.

  I looked up, curious. “Who?”

  Fela hesitated. “Meradin,” she said. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “She didn’t say twenty words to me over dinner,” I said, shaking my head. “And she’s disappointed I didn’t grope her afterward? I thought she hated me.”

  “We’re a long way from Modeg,” Fela said. “People aren’t sensible about sex in this part of the world. Some women don’t know how to deal with a man that doesn’t make bold moves.”

  “Fine,” I said. “What else do they say?”

  “Nothing terribly surprising,” she said. “While you might not be grabby, it’s certainly no challenge to trip you either. You’re generous, witty, and . . .” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  Fela sighed and added, “Distant.”

  It wasn’t the crushing blow I’d expected. “Distant?”

  “Sometimes all you’re looking for is dinner,” Fela said. “Or company. Or conversation. Or for someone to have a friendly grope at you. But mostly you want a man to . . .” She frowned and started over. “When you’re with a man . . .” She trailed off again.

  I leaned forward. “Say what you mean.”

  Fela shrugged and looked away. “If we were together, I’d expect you to leave me. Not right away. Not with any malice or meanness. But I know you would. You don’t seem like the sort who will settle down with a girl forever. Eventually you’d move on to something more important than me.”

  I prodded idly at a bit of potato in my soup, not sure of what to think.

  “There’s got to be more to it than just devotion,” Sim said. “Kvothe would turn the world upside down for this girl. You can see that, can’t you?”

  Fela gave me a long look. “I suppose I can,” she said softly.

  “If you can see it, then Denna must be able to,” Simmon pointed out sensibly.

  Fela shook her head. “It’s only easy to see because I’m far enough away.”

  “Love is blind?” Sim laughed. “That’s the advice you have to offer?” He rolled his eyes. “Please.”

  “I never said I was in love,” I interjected. “I never said that. She confuses me, and I’m fond of her. But it doesn’t go further than that. How could it? I don’t know her well enough to make any earnest claim of love. How can I love something I don’t understand?”

  They looked at me in silence for a moment. Then Sim burst out in his boyish laugh as if I’d just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. He took hold of Fela’s hand and kissed it squarely on her multifaceted ring of stone. “You win,” he said to her. “Love is blind, and a deaf-mute too. I’ll never doubt your wisdom again.”

  Still feeling out of sorts, I went looking for Master Elodin, eventually finding him sitting under a tree in a small garden next to the Mews.

  “Kvothe!” He waved lazily. “Come. Sit.” He nudged a bowl toward me with his foot. “Have some grapes.”

  I took a few. Fresh fruit wasn’t a rarity for me these days, but the grapes were lovely nonetheless, just on the verge of being overripe. I chewed pensively, my mind still tangled with thoughts of Denna.

  “Master Elodin,” I asked slowly. “What would you think of someone who kept changing their own name?”

  “What?” He sat up suddenly, his eyes wild and panicked. “What have you done?”

  His reaction startled me, and I held up my hands defensively. “Nothing!” I insisted. “It’s not me. It’s a girl I know.”

  Elodin’s face grew ashen. “Fela?” he said. “Oh no. No. She wouldn’t do something like that. She’s too smart for that.” It sounded as if he were desperately trying to convince himself.

  “I’m not talking about Fela,” I said. “I’m talking about a young girl I know. Every time I turn around she’s picked another name for herself.”

  “Oh,” Elodin said, relaxing. He leaned back against the tree, laughing softly. “Calling names,” he said with tangible relief. “God’s bones, boy, I thought . . .” He broke off, shaking his head.

  “You thought what?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said dismissively. “Now. What’s this about a girl?”

  I shrugged, beginning to regret bringing it up in the first place. “I was just wondering what you’d say about a girl who keeps changing her name. Every time I turn around she’s picked a different one. Dianah. Donna. Dy
ane.”

  “I’m assuming she’s not some fugitive?” Elodin asked, smiling. “Hunted. Doing her best to evade the iron law of Atur. That sort of thing?”

  “Not to the best of my knowledge,” I said with a faint smile of my own.

  “It could indicate she doesn’t know who she is,” he said. “Or that she does know, and doesn’t like it.” He looked up and rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “It could indicate restlessness and dissatisfaction. It could mean her nature is changeable and she shifts her name to fit it. Or it could mean she changes her name with the hope it might help her be a different person.”

  “That’s a lot of nothing,” I said testily. “It’s like saying you know your soup is either hot or cold. That an apple is either sweet or sour.” I gave him a frown. “It’s just a complicated way of saying you don’t know anything.”

  “You didn’t ask me what I knew of such a girl,” he pointed out. “You asked me what I would say of such a girl.”

  I shrugged, tiring of the subject. We ate grapes in silence as we watched the students come and go.

  “I called the wind again,” I said, realizing I hadn’t told him yet. “Down in Tarbean.”

  He perked up at that. “Did you now?” he said, turning to look at me expectantly. “Let’s hear it then. All the details. ”

  Elodin was everything you could want in an audience, attentive and enthusiastic. I related the entire story, not sparing a few dramatic flourishes. By the end of it, I found my mood much improved.

  “That’s three times this term,” Elodin said approvingly. “Sought and found when you had need of it. And not just a breeze but a breath. That’s subtle stuff.” He looked at me from the corner of his eye, giving me a sly smile. “How long do you think it will be before you can make yourself a ring of air?”

  I lifted up my naked left hand, fingers spread. “Who’s to say I’m not already wearing it?”

  Elodin rocked with laughter, then stopped when my expression didn’t change. His brow furrowed a bit as he gave me a speculative look, eyes flickering first to my hand, then back to my face. “Are you joking?” he asked.

  “That’s a good question,” I said, looking him calmly in the eye. “Am I?”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY

  Folly

  SPRING TERM ROLLED ON. Contrary to what I’d expected, Denna didn’t make any public performances in Imre. Instead, she headed north to Anilin after a handful of days.

  But this time she made a special trip to Anker’s to tell me she was leaving. I found myself strangely flattered by this and couldn’t help but feel it was a sign that things were not entirely sour between us.

  The Chancellor fell ill just as the term was coming to a close. Though I didn’t know him very well, I liked Herma. Not only did I find him to be a surprisingly easygoing teacher when he had been teaching me Yllish, but he had been kind to me when I was new to the University. Nevertheless, I wasn’t particularly worried. Arwyl and the staff of the Medica could do everything just short of bringing people back from the dead.

  But days passed and no news came from the Medica. Rumor said he was too weak to leave his bed, plagued with spikes of fever that threatened to burn away his powerful arcanist’s mind.

  When it became apparent he wouldn’t be able to resume his duties as Chancellor anytime soon, the masters gathered to decide who would fill his place. Perhaps permanently, should his condition worsen.

  And, to make a painful story short, Hemme was appointed Chancellor. After the shock wore off, it was easy to see why. Kilvin, Arwyl, and Lorren were too busy to take up the extra duties. The same could be said for Mandrag and Dal to a lesser extent. That left Elodin, Brandeur, and Hemme.

  Elodin didn’t want it, and was generally regarded as too erratic to serve. And Brandeur always faced whatever direction Hemme’s own wind was blowing.

  So Hemme gained the Chancellor’s chair. While I found it irritating, it had little impact on my day-to-day life. The only precaution I took was to step with extra care around even the least of the University’s laws, knowing if I were put on the horns now, Hemme’s vote would count doubly against me.

  As admissions approached, Master Herma remained weak and fevered. So it was with a knot of sour dread in my stomach that I prepared for my first admissions interview with Hemme as Chancellor.

  I went through the questioning with the same careful artifice I’d maintained for the last two terms. I hesitated and made a few mistakes, earning a tuition of twenty talents or so. Enough to earn some money, but not enough to embarrass myself too badly.

  Hemme, as always, asked double-sided or misleading questions designed to trip me, but that was nothing new. The only real difference seemed to be that Hemme smiled a great deal. It wasn’t a pleasant smile either.

  The masters had their usual muted conference. Then Hemme read my tuition: fifty talents. Apparently the Chancellor had greater control over these things than I had ever known.

  I forced myself to bite my lip to keep from laughing, and arranged my face in a dejected expression as I made my way to the basement of Hollows where the bursar kept his counting room. Riem’s eyes brightened at the sight of my tuition slip. He disappeared into his back room and returned in a moment with an envelope of thick paper.

  I thanked him and returned to my room at Anker’s, maintaining my morose expression all the way. Once I had the door closed, I tore open the heavy envelope and poured its contents into my hand: two gleaming gold marks worth ten talents each.

  I laughed then. Laughed until my eyes watered and my sides ached. Then I drew on my best suit of clothes and gathered my friends: Wilem and Simmon, Fela and Mola. I sent a runner boy to Imre with an invitation to Devi and Threpe. Then I hired a four-horse carriage and had the lot of us driven across the river to Imre.

  We stopped by the Eolian. Denna wasn’t there, but I collected Deoch instead and we made our way to the King’s Arms, an establishment of the sort no self-respecting student could ever afford. The doorman looked the motley lot of us over scornfully, as if he would object, but Threpe frowned his best gentleman’s frown and ushered all of us safely inside.

  Then commenced a night of pleasant decadence the likes of which I have hardly seen equaled since. We ate and drank, and I paid for everything happily. The only water on the table was in the hand bowls. In our cups there was only old Vintish wines, dark scutten, cool metheglin, sweet brand, and every toast we drank was to Hemme’s folly.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-ONE

  Locks

  KVOTHE DREW A DEEP breath and nodded to himself. “Let’s stop there,” he said. “Money in my pocket for the first time in my life. Surrounded by friends. That’s a good place to end for the night.” He idly rubbed his hands together, right hand massaging the left absentmindedly. “If we go much farther, things get dark again.”

  Chronicler picked up the short stack of finished pages and tapped them on the table, squaring their corners before resting the half-finished page on top. He opened his leather satchel, removed the bright green crown of holly, and slid the pages inside.Then he screwed shut his inkwell and began to dismantle and clean all the pieces of his pen.

  Kvothe stood and stretched. Then he gathered up the empty plates and cups, carrying them into the kitchen.

  Bast merely sat, his expression blank. He didn’t move. He hardly seemed to be breathing. After several minutes Chronicler began to dart glances in his direction.

  Kvothe came back into the room and frowned. “Bast,” he said.

  Bast slowly turned his eyes to look at the man behind the bar.

  “Shep’s wake is still going on,” Kvothe said. “There’s not much cleaning up to do tonight. Why don’t you head over for the end of it? They’ll be glad to have you. . . .”

  Bast considered for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think so, Reshi,” he said, his voice flat. “I’m not really in the mood.” He pushed himself out of his chair and made his way across the room toward the stairs witho
ut looking either of them in the eye. “I’ll just turn in.”

  The hard sounds of his footsteps retreated slowly into the distance, followed by the sound of a closing door.

  Chronicler watched him go, then turned to look at the red-haired man behind the bar.

  Kvothe was looking at the stairway too, his eyes concerned. “He’s just had a rough day,” he said, sounding as if he were speaking to himself as much as his guest. “He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  Wiping off his hands, Kvothe walked around the bar and headed to the front door. “Do you need anything before you turn in?” he asked.

  Chronicler shook his head and began fitting his pen back together.

  Kvothe locked the front door with a large brass key, then turned to Chronicler. “I’ll leave this in the lock for you,” he said. “In case you wake up early and feel like having a walk or somesuch. I don’t tend to sleep very much these days.” He touched the side of his face where a bruise was beginning to mottle his jaw. “But tonight I might make an exception.”

  Chronicler nodded and shouldered his satchel. Then he delicately picked up his holly crown and headed up the stairs.

  Alone in the common room, Kvothe swept the floor methodically, catching all the corners. He finished the dishes, washed the tables and the bar, and rolled down all the lamps but one, leaving the room dimly lit and full of flickering shadow.

  For a moment he looked at the bottles behind the bar, then turned and made his own slow climb upstairs.

  Bast stepped slowly into his room, closing the door behind himself.

  He moved quietly through the dark to stand before the hearth. Nothing but ash and cinder remained from the morning’s fire. Bast opened the woodbin, but there was nothing inside except a thick layer of chaff and chips at the bottom.

  The dim light from the window glinted in his dark eyes and showed the outline of his face as he stood motionless, as if trying to decide what to do. After a moment he let the lid of the bin fall closed, wrapped himself in a blanket, and folded himself onto a small couch in front of the empty fireplace.