The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  He sat there for a long while, eyes open in the dark.

  There was a faint scuffle outside his window. Then nothing. Then a faint scraping. Bast turned and saw a dark shape outside, moving in the night.

  Bast went motionless, then slid smoothly from the couch to stand in front of the fireplace. Eyes still on the window, his hands hunted carefully across the top of the mantel.

  There was another scrape at the window, louder this time. Bast’s eyes darted away from the window to the mantel, and he caught up something with both hands. Metal gleamed faintly in the dim moonlight as he crouched, his body tense as a coiled spring.

  For a long moment there was nothing. No sound. No movement outside the window or in the darkened room.

  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. It was a faint noise, but perfectly clear in the stillness of the room. There was a pause, then the noise came again, sharp and insistent against the window glass: tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Bast sighed. Relaxing out of his tense crouch, he walked over to the window, threw the drop bar, and opened it.

  “My window doesn’t have a lock,” Chronicler said petulantly. “Why does yours?”

  “Obvious reasons,” Bast said.

  “Can I come in?”

  Bast shrugged and moved back toward the fireplace while Chronicler climbed awkwardly through the window. Bast struck a match and lit a lamp on a nearby table, then carefully set a pair of long knives on the mantel. One was slender and sharp as a blade of grass, the other keen and graceful as a thorn.

  Chronicler looked around as light swelled to fill the room. It was large, with rich wood paneling and thick carpets. Two lounging couches faced each other in front of the fireplace, and one corner of the room was dominated by a huge canopy bed with deep green curtains.

  There were shelves filled with pictures, trinkets, and oddments. Locks of hair wrapped in ribbon. Whistles carved from wood. Dried flowers. Rings of horn and leather and woven grass. A hand-dipped candle with leaves pressed into the wax.

  And, in what was obviously a recent addition, holly boughs decorated parts of the room. One long garland ran along the headboard of the bed, and another was strung along the mantle, weaving in and out through the handles of a pair of bright, leaf-bladed hatchets hanging there.

  Bast sat back in front of the cold fireplace and wrapped a rag blanket around his shoulders like a shawl. It was a chaos of ill-matching fabric and faded color except for a bright red heart sewn squarely in the center.

  “We need to talk,” Chronicler said softly.

  Bast shrugged, his eyes fixed dully on the fireplace.

  Chronicler took a step closer. “I need to ask you ...”

  “You don’t have to whisper,” Bast said without looking up. “We’re on the other side of the inn. Sometimes I have guests. It used to keep him awake, so I moved to this side of the building. There are six solid walls between my room and his.”

  Chronicler sat on the edge of the other couch, facing Bast. “I need to ask about some of the things you said tonight. About the Cthaeh.”

  “We shouldn’t talk about the Cthaeh.” Bast’s voice was flat and leaden. “It’s not healthy.”

  “The Sithe then,” Chronicler said. “You said if they knew about this story, they’d kill everyone involved. Is that true?”

  Bast nodded, eyes still on the fireplace. “They’d burn this place and salt the earth behind them.”

  Chronicler looked down, shaking his head. “I don’t understand this fear you have of the Cthaeh,” he said.

  “Well,” Bast said, “evidence seems to indicate that you’re not terribly smart.”

  Chronicler frowned and waited patiently.

  Bast sighed, finally pulling his eyes away from the fireplace. “Think. The Cthaeh knows everything you’re ever going to do. Everything you’re going to say . . .

  “That makes it an irritating conversationalist,” Chronicler said. “But not—”

  Bast’s expression went suddenly furious. “Dyen vehat. Enfeun vehat tyloren tes!” he spat almost incoherently. He was trembling, clenching and unclenching his hands.

  Chronicler went pale at the venom in Bast’s voice, but he didn’t flinch. “You’re not angry at me,” he said calmly, looking Bast in the eye. “You’re just angry, and I happen to be nearby.”

  Bast glared at him, but said nothing.

  Chronicler leaned forward. “I’m trying to help, you know that, right?”

  Bast nodded sullenly.

  “That means I need to understand what’s going on.”

  Bast shrugged, his sudden flare of temper had burned itself out, leaving him listless again.

  “Kvothe seems to believe you about the Cthaeh,” Chronicler said.

  “He knows the hidden turnings of the world,” Bast said. “And what he doesn’t understand he’s quick to grasp.” Bast’s fingers flicked idly at the edges of the blanket. “And he trusts me.”

  “But doesn’t it seem contrived? The Cthaeh gives a boy a flower, one thing leads to another, and suddenly there’s a war.” Chronicler made a dismissive motion. “Things don’t work that way. It’s too much coincidence.”

  “It’s not coincidence.” Bast gave a short sigh. “A blind man has to stumble through a cluttered room. You don’t. You use your eyes and pick the easy way. It’s clear to you as anything. The Cthaeh can see the future. All futures. We have to fumble through. It doesn’t. It merely looks and picks the most disastrous path. It is the stone that stirs the avalanche. It is the cough that starts the plague.”

  “But if you know the Cthaeh is trying to steer you,” Chronicler said. “You would just do something else. He gives you the flower, and you just sell it.”

  Bast shook his head. “The Cthaeh would know. You can’t second-guess a thing that knows your future. Say you sell the flower to the prince. He uses the flower to heal his betrothed. A year later she catches him diddling the chambermaid, hangs herself in disgrace, and her father launches an attack to avenge her honor.” Bast spread his hands helplessly. “You still get civil war.”

  “But the young man who sold the flower stays safe.”

  “Probably not,” Bast said grimly. “More likely he gets drunk as a lord, catches the pox, then knocks over a lamp and sets half the city on fire.”

  “You’re just making things up to prove your point,” Chronicler said. “You’re not actually proving anything.”

  “Why do I need to prove anything to you?” Bast asked. “Why would I care what you think? Be happy in your silly little ignorance. I’m doing you a favor by not telling you the truth.”

  “What truth is that?” Chronicler said, plainly irritated.

  Bast gave a weary sigh, and looked up at Chronicler, his expression utterly empty of all hope. “I would rather fight Haliax himself,” he said. “I’d rather face all the Chandrian together than have ten words of conversation with the Cthaeh.”

  This gave Chronicler a bit of a pause. “They’d kill you,” he said. Something in his voice made it a question.

  “Yes,” Bast said. “Even so.”

  Chronicler stared at the dark-haired man sitting across from him, wrapped in a rag blanket. “Stories taught you to fear the Cthaeh,” he said, disgust plain in his voice. “And that fear is making you stupid.”

  Bast shrugged, his empty eyes drifting back to the nonexistent fire. “You bore me, manling.”

  Chronicler stood up, stepped forward, and slapped Bast hard across the face.

  Bast’s head rocked to the side, and for a moment he seemed too shocked to move. Then he came to his feet in a blur of motion, blanket flying from his shoulders. He grabbed Chronicler roughly by the throat, teeth bared, his eyes a deep, unbroken blue.

  Chronicler looked him squarely in the eye. “The Cthaeh set all of this in motion,” he said calmly. “It knew you would attack me, and terrible things will come of it.”

  Bast’s furious expression went stiff, his eyes widening. The tension left his shoulders as he let go of C
hronicler’s throat. He started to sink back down onto the cushions of the couch.

  Chronicler drew back his arm and slapped him again. If anything, the sound was even louder than before.

  Bast bared his teeth again, then stopped. His eyes darted to Chronicler, then away.

  “The Cthaeh knows you fear it,” Chronicler said. “It knows I would use that knowledge against you. It’s still manipulating you. If you don’t attack me, terrible things will come of it.”

  Bast froze as if paralyzed, trapped halfway between standing and sitting.

  “Are you listening to me?” Chronicler said. “Are you finally awake?”

  Bast looked up at the scribe with an expression of confused amazement. A bright red mark was blossoming on his cheek. He nodded, sinking slowly back onto the couch.

  Chronicler drew back his arm. “What will you do if I hit you again?”

  “Beat ten colors of guts out of you,” Bast said earnestly.

  Chronicler nodded and sat back down on his couch. “I will, for the sake of argument, accept that the Cthaeh knows the future. That means it can control many things.” He raised a finger. “But not everything. The fruit you ate today was still sweet in your mouth, wasn’t it?”

  Bast nodded slowly.

  “If the Cthaeh is as malicious as you say, it would harm you in every way possible. But it cannot. It could not keep you from making your Reshi laugh this morning. It could not keep you from enjoying the sun on your face or kissing the rosy cheeks of farmers’ daughters, could it?”

  A flicker of a grin found Bast’s face. “I kissed more than that,” he said.

  “That,” Chronicler said firmly, “is my point. It cannot poison every thing we do.”

  Bast looked thoughtful, then sighed. “You’re right in a way,” he said. “But only an idiot sits in a burning house and thinks everything is fine because fruit is still sweet.”

  Chronicler made a point of looking around the room. “The inn doesn’t look like it’s on fire to me.”

  Bast looked at him incredulously. “The whole world is burning down,” he said. “Open your eyes.”

  Chronicler frowned. “Even ignoring everything else,” he said, bulling ahead. “Felurian let him go. She knew he’d spoken with the Cthaeh, surely she wouldn’t have loosed him on the world unless she had some way to guard against its influence.”

  Bast’s eyes brightened at the thought, then dimmed almost immediately. He shook his head. “You’re looking for depth in a shallow stream,” he said.

  “I don’t follow you,” Chronicler demanded. “What possible reason could she have for letting him go if he was truly dangerous?”

  “Reason?” Bast asked, dark amusement coloring his voice. “No reason. She’s got nothing to do with reason. She let him go because it pleased her pride. She wanted him to go out into the mortal world and sing her praises. Tell stories about her. Pine for her. That’s why she let him leave.” He sighed. “I’ve already told you. My folk are not famous for our good decisions.”

  “Perhaps,” Chronicler said. “Or perhaps she simply recognized the futility of trying to second-guess the Cthaeh.” He made a nonchalant gesture. “If whatever you’re going to do is wrong, you might as well do whatever you want.”

  Bast sat quietly for a long moment. Then he nodded, faintly at first, then more firmly. “You’re right,” he said. “If everything is going to end in tears anyway, I should do what I want.”

  Bast looked around the room, then came suddenly to his feet. After a moment’s searching, he found a thick cloak crumpled on the floor. He gave it a vigorous shake and wrapped it around his shoulders before heading to the window. Then he stopped, came back to the couch, and rummaged in the cushions until he found a bottle of wine.

  Chronicler looked puzzled. “What are you doing? Are you going back to Shep’s wake?”

  Bast paused on his way back to the window, seeming almost surprised to see Chronicler still standing there. “I am going about my business,” he said tucking the bottle of wine under his arm. He opened the window and swung one foot outside. “Don’t wait up.”

  Kvothe stepped briskly into his room, closing the door behind himself.

  He moved about busily. He cleared the cold ashes from the fireplace and set new wood in its place, sparking the fire to life with a fat red sulfur match. He fetched a second blanket and spread it over his narrow bed. Frowning slightly, he picked up the crumpled piece of paper from where it had fallen to the floor and returned it to the top of his desk where it sat next to the two other crumpled sheets.

  Then, moving almost reluctantly, he made his way to the foot of his bed. Taking a deep breath, he wiped his hands on his pants and knelt in front of the dark chest that sat there. He rested both hands on the curved lid and closed his eyes, as if listening for something. His shoulders shifted as he tugged against the lid.

  Nothing happened. Kvothe opened his eyes. His mouth made a grim line. His hands moved again, pulling harder, straining for a long moment before giving up.

  Expressionless, Kvothe stood and walked to the window that overlooked the woods behind the inn. He slid it open and leaned out, reaching down with both hands. Then he drew himself back inside, clutching a slender wooden box.

  Brushing away a coating of dust and spiderwebs, he opened the box. Inside lay a key of dark iron and a key of bright copper. Kvothe knelt in front of the chest again and fit the copper key into the iron lock. With slow precision he turned it: left, then right, then left again, listening carefully to the faint clicks of some mechanism inside.

  Then he lifted the iron key and fit it into the copper plate. This key he did not turn. He slid it deep into the lock, brought it halfway out, then pushed it back before drawing it free in a smooth, quick motion.

  After replacing the keys in their box, he put his hands back on the sides of the lid in the same position as before. “Open,” he said under his breath. “Open, damn you. Edro.”

  He lifted, his back and shoulders tensing with the effort of it.

  The lid of the chest didn’t budge. Kvothe gave a long sigh and leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the cool dark wood. As the air rushed out of him, his shoulders sagged, leaving him looking small and wounded, terribly tired and older than his years.

  His expression, however, showed no surprise, no grief. It was merely resigned. It was the expression of a man who has finally received bad news he’d already known was on the way.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-TWO

  Elderberry

  IT WAS A BAD night to be caught in the open.

  The clouds had rolled in late, like a grey sheet pulled across the sky. The wind was chill and gusty, with fits and starts of rain that spattered down heavily before fading into drizzle.

  For all this, the two soldiers camped in a thicket near the road seemed to be enjoying themselves. They’d found a woodcutter’s stash and built their fire so high and hot that the occasional gust of rain did little more than make it spit and hiss.

  The two men were talking loudly, laughing the wild, braying laughter of men too drunk to care about the weather.

  Eventually a third man emerged from the dark trees, stepping delicately over the trunk of a nearby fallen tree. He was wet, if not soaked, and his dark hair was plastered flat to his head. When the soldiers saw him, they lifted their bottles and called out an enthusiastic greeting.

  “Didn’t know if you’d make it,” the blonde soldier said. “It’s a shit night. But it’s only fair you get your third.”

  “You’re wet through,” said the bearded one, lifting up a narrow yellow bottle. “Suck on this. It’s some fruit thing, but it kicks like a pony.”

  “Yours is girly piss,” the blonde soldier said, holding up his own. “Here. Now this here is a man’s drink.”

  The third man looked back and forth as if unable to decide. Finally he lifted a finger, pointing at one bottle then the other as he began to chant.

  Maple. Maypole.

 
; Catch and carry.

  Ash and Ember.

  Elderberry.

  He ended pointing at the yellow bottle, then gripped it by the neck and lifted to his lips. He took a long, slow drink, his throat working silently.

  “Hey there,” said the bearded soldier. “Save a bit!”

  Bast lowered the bottle and licked his lips. He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “You got the right bottle,” he said. “It’s elderberry.”

  “You’re nowhere near as chatty as you were this morning,” the blonde soldier said, cocking his head to one side. “You look like your dog died. Is everything alright?”

  “No,” Bast said. “Nothing’s alright.”

  “It ain’t our fault if he figured it out,” the blonde one said quickly. “We waited a bit after you left, just like you said. But we’d been sitting for hours already. Thought you were never going to leave.”

  “Hell,” the bearded man said, irritated. “Does he know? He throw you out?”

  Bast shook his head and tipped the bottle back again.

  “Then you ain’t got nothing to complain of.” The blonde soldier rubbed the side of his head, scowling. “Silly bastard gave me a lump or two.”

  “He got it back with some to spare.” The bearded soldier grinned, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles. “He’ll be pissing blood tomorrow.”

  “So it’s all good at the end,” the blonde soldier said philosophically, lurching unsteadily as he waved his bottle a little too dramatically. “You got to skin your knuckles. I got a drink of something lovely. And we all made a heavy penny. Everyone’s happy. Everyone gets what they wanted most.”

  “I didn’t get what I wanted,” Bast said flatly.

  “Not yet,” the bearded soldier said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a purse that made a weighty chink as he bounced it in his palm. “Grab a piece of fire and we’ll divvy this up.”

  Bast looked around the circle of firelight, making no move to take a seat. Then he began to chant again as he pointed at things randomly: a nearby stone, a log, a hatchet . . .