Kingkiller Chronicle [01] The Name of the Wind

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Sovoy smiled. “Unfortunately, I must leave you. I have an engagement with a lady, and I doubt our rounds will bring us to this side of town tonight.”

  “You didn’t tell us you had a date,” Sim protested. “We can’t play corners with just three.”

  It was something of a concession that Sovoy was here with us at all. He’d sniffed a bit at Wil and Sim’s choice of taverns. Anker’s was low-class enough so that the drinks were cheap, but high-class enough so that you didn’t have to worry about someone picking a fight or throwing up on you. I liked it.

  “You are good friends and good company,” Sovoy said. “But none of you are female, nor, with the possible exception of Simmon, are you lovely.” Sovoy winked at him. “Honestly, who among you wouldn’t throw the others over if there was a lady waiting?”

  We murmured a grudging agreement. Sovoy smiled; his teeth were very white and straight. “I’ll send the girl over with more drinks,” he said as he turned to go. “To ease the bitter sting of my departure.”

  “He’s not a bad sort,” I mused after he left. “For nobility.”

  Wilem nodded. “It’s like he knows he’s better than you, but doesn’t look down on you for it because he knows it’s not your fault.”

  “So who are you going to cozy up to?” Sim asked, resting his elbows on the table. “I’m guessing not Hemme.”

  “Or Lorren,” I said bitterly. “Damn Ambrose twelve ways. I would have loved to work in the Archives.”

  “Brandeur’s out too,” Sim said. “If Hemme has a grudge, Brandeur helps him carry it.”

  “How about the Chancellor?” Wilem asked. “Linguistics? You already speak Siaru, even if your accent is barbaric.”

  I shook my head. “What about Mandrag? I’ve got a lot of experience with chemistry. It’d be a small step into alchemy.”

  Simmon laughed. “Everyone thinks chemistry and alchemy are so similar, but they’re really not. They’re not even related. They just happen to live in the same house.”

  Wilem gave a slow nod. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

  “Besides,” Simmon said. “Mandrag brought in about twenty new E’lir last term. I heard him complaining about how crowded things were.”

  “You’ve got a long haul if you go through Medica,” Wilem said. “Arwyl is stubborn as pig iron. There is no bending him.” He made a gesture with his hand as if chopping something into sections while he spoke. “Six terms E’lir. Eight terms Re’lar. Ten terms El’the.”

  “At least,” Simmon added. “Mola’s been a Re’lar with him for almost three years now.”

  I tried to think of how I could come up with six years’ worth of tuition. “I might not have the patience for that,” I said.

  The serving girl appeared with a tray of drinks. Anker’s was only half full, so she’d been running just enough to bring roses to her cheeks. “Your gentleman friend paid for this round and the next,” she said.

  “I like Sovoy more and more,” Wilem said.

  “However,” she held Wil’s drink out of his reach. “He didn’t pay for putting his hand on my ass,” she looked each of us in the eye. “I’ll trust the three of you to settle that debt before you leave.”

  Sim stammered an apology. “He…he doesn’t mean…In his culture that sort of thing is more common.”

  She rolled her eyes, her expression softening. “Well in this culture a healthy tip makes a fine apology.” She handed Wil his drink and turned to leave, resting her empty tray on one hip.

  We watched her go, each of us thinking our own private thoughts.

  “I noticed he had his rings back,” I mentioned eventually.

  “He played a brilliant round of bassat last night,” Simmon said. “Made six doublings in a row and cracked the bank.”

  “To Sovoy,” Wilem held up his tin mug. “May his luck keep him in classes and us in drinks.” We toasted and drank, then Wilem brought us back to the matter at hand. “That leaves you with Kilvin and Elxa Dal.” He held up two fingers.

  “What about Elodin?” I interrupted.

  They both gave me blank looks. “What about him?” Simmon asked.

  “He seems nice enough,” I said. “Couldn’t I study under him?”

  Simmon burst out laughing. Wilem gave a rare grin. “What?” I demanded.

  “Elodin doesn’t teach anything,” Sim explained. “Except maybe advanced oddness.”

  “He has to teach something,” I protested. “He’s a master, isn’t he?”

  “Sim is right. Elodin is cramped.” Wil tapped the side of his head.

  “Cracked,” Simmon corrected.

  “Cracked,” Wil repeated.

  “He does seem a little…strange,” I said.

  “You do pick things up quick,” Wilem said dryly. “No wonder you made it into the Arcanum at such a tender age.”

  “Ease off, Wil, he’s hardly been here a span.” Simmon turned to me. “Elodin used to be Chancellor about five years ago.”

  “Elodin?” I couldn’t hide my incredulity. “But he’s so young and…” I trailed off, not wanting to say the first word that came to my mind: crazy.

  Simmon finished my sentence. “…brilliant. And not that young if you consider that he was admitted to the University when he was barely fourteen.” Simmon looked at me. “He was a full arcanist by eighteen. Then he stayed around as a giller for a few years.”

  “Giller?” I interrupted.

  “Gillers are arcanists who stay at the University,” Wil said. “They do a lot of the teaching. You know Cammar in the Fishery?”

  I shook my head.

  “Tall, scarred.” Wil gestured to one side of his face. “Only one eye?”

  I nodded somberly. Cammar was hard to miss. The left side of his face was a web of scars that radiated out, leaving bald strips running through his black hair and beard. He wore a patch over the hollow of his left eye. He was a walking object lesson about how dangerous work in the Fishery could be. “I’ve seen him around. He’s a full arcanist?”

  Wil nodded. “He’s Kilvin’s second in command. He teaches sygaldry to the newer students.”

  Sim cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Elodin was the youngest ever admitted, youngest to make arcanist, and youngest to be Chancellor.”

  “Even so,” I said. “You have to admit he’s a little odd to be Chancellor.”

  “Not back then,” Simmon said soberly. “That was before it happened.”

  When nothing more was forthcoming I prompted, “It?”

  Wil shrugged. “Something. They do not speak on it. They locked him in the Crockery until he got most of his marbles back.”

  “I don’t like thinking about it,” Simmon said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I mean, a couple students go crazy every term, right?” He looked at Wilem. “Remember Slyhth?” Wil nodded somberly. “It might happen to any of us.”

  There was a moment of silence as the two of them sipped their drinks, not looking at anything in particular. I wanted to ask for specifics, but I could tell that it was a touchy subject.

  “Anyway,” Sim said in a low voice. “I heard they didn’t let him out of the Crockery. I heard he escaped.”

  “No arcanist worth his salt can be kept in a cell,” I said. “That’s not surprising.”

  “Have you ever been there?” Simmon asked. “It’s built to keep arcanists locked up. All meshed stone. Wards on the doors and windows.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine how someone could get out, even one of the masters.”

  “All this is beside the path,” Wilem said firmly, bringing us back to task. “Kilvin has welcomed you to the Fishery. Impressing him will be your best chance at making Re’lar.” He looked back and forth between us. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Simmon said.

  I nodded, but the wheels in my head were spinning. I was thinking about Taborlin the Great, who knew the names of all things. I thought about the stories Skarpi had told back in Tarbean. He hadn’t mentioned arcanis
ts, only namers.

  And I thought of Elodin, Master Namer, and how I might approach him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Interlude—Some Tavern Tale

  AT A GESTURE FROM Kvothe, Chronicler wiped off the nib of his pen and shook out his hand. Bast gave a great, seated stretch, his arms arching over the back of the chair.

  “I’d almost forgotten how quickly it all happened,” Kvothe mused. “Those were probably the first stories anyone ever told about me.”

  “They’re still telling them at the University,” Chronicler said. “I’ve heard three different versions of the class you taught. Your whipping, too. Is that when they started calling you Kvothe the Bloodless?”

  Kvothe nodded. “Possibly.”

  “If we’re asking questions, Reshi,” Bast said sheepishly, “I was wondering why you didn’t go looking for Skarpi?”

  “What could I have done, Bast? Smeared my face with lampblack and staged a daring midnight rescue?” Kvothe gave a brief humorless laugh. “They’d taken him in on heresy. All I could do was hope he truly had friends in the church.”

  Kvothe drew a deep breath and sighed. “But the simplest reason is the least satisfying one, I suppose. The truth is this: I wasn’t living in a story.”

  “I don’t think I’m understanding you, Reshi,” Bast said, puzzled.

  “Think of all the stories you’ve heard, Bast. You have a young boy, the hero. His parents are killed. He sets out for vengeance. What happens next?”

  Bast hesitated, his expression puzzled. Chronicler answered the question instead. “He finds help. A clever talking squirrel. An old drunken swordsman. A mad hermit in the woods. That sort of thing.”

  Kvothe nodded. “Exactly! He finds the mad hermit in the woods, proves himself worthy, and learns the names of all things, just like Taborlin the Great. Then with these powerful magics at his beck and call, what does he do?”

  Chronicler shrugged. “He finds the villains and kills them.”

  “Of course,” Kvothe said grandly. “Clean, quick, and easy as lying. We know how it ends practically before it starts. That’s why stories appeal to us. They give us the clarity and simplicity our real lives lack.”

  Kvothe leaned forward. “If this were some tavern tale, all half-truth and senseless adventure, I would tell you how my time at the University was spent with a purity of dedication. I would learn the ever-changing name of the wind, ride out, and gain my revenge against the Chandrian.” Kvothe snapped his fingers sharply. “Simple as that.

  “But while that might make for an entertaining story, it would not be the truth. The truth is this. I had mourned my parent’s death for three years, and the pain of it had faded to a dull ache.”

  Kvothe made a conciliatory gesture with one hand, and smiled a tight smile. “I won’t lie to you. There were times late at night when I lay sleepless and desperately alone in my narrow bunk in the Mews, times when I was choked with a sorrow so endless and empty that I thought it would smother me.

  “There were times when I would see a mother holding her child, or a father laughing with his son, and anger would flare up in me, hot and furious with the memory of blood and the smell of burning hair.”

  Kvothe shrugged. “But there was more to my life than revenge. I had very real obstacles to overcome close at hand. My poverty. My low birth. The enemies I made at the University were more dangerous to me than any of the Chandrian.”

  He gestured for Chronicler to pick up his pen. “But for all that, we still see that even the most fanciful of stories hold a shred of truth, because I did find something very near to the mad hermit in the woods.” Kvothe smiled. “And I was determined to learn the name of the wind.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The Ever-Changing Wind

  ELODIN PROVED A DIFFICULT man to find. He had an office in Hollows, but never seemed to use it. When I visited Ledgers and Lists, I discovered he only taught one class: Unlikely Maths. However, this was less than helpful in tracking him down, as according to the ledger, the time of the class was “now” and the location was “everywhere.”

  In the end, I spotted him through sheer luck across a crowded courtyard. He was wearing his black master’s robes, which was something of a rarity. I was on my way to the Medica for observation but decided I’d rather be late for my class than miss the opportunity to speak with him.

  By the time I struggled through the midday crowd and caught up with him, we were on the northern edge of the University, following a wide dirt road that led into the forest. “Master Elodin,” I said, pelting up to him. “I was hoping I could talk with you.”

  “A sad little hope,” he said without breaking stride or looking in my direction. “You should aim higher. A young man ought to be afire with high ambitions.”

  “I hope to study naming then,” I said, falling into step beside him.

  “Too high,” he said matter-of-factly. “Try again. Somewhere in-between.” The dirt road curved, and trees blocked the sight of the University’s buildings behind us.

  “I hope you’ll accept me as a student?” I tried again. “And teach me whatever you think best?”

  Elodin stopped walking abruptly and turned to face me. “Fine,” he said. “Go find me three pinecones.” He made a circle with his thumb and finger. “This big, without any of the little bits broken off.” He sat down right in the middle of the road and made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go on. Hurry.”

  I darted off into the surrounding trees. It took me about five minutes to find three pinecones of the appropriate type. By the time I got back to the road I was disheveled and bramble-scratched. Elodin was nowhere to be seen.

  I looked around stupidly, then cursed, dropped the pinecones, and took off running, following the road north. I caught up with him fairly quickly, as he was just idling along, looking at the trees.

  “So what did you learn?” Elodin asked.

  “That you want to be left alone?”

  “You are quick.” He spread his arms dramatically and intoned. “Here endeth the lesson! Here endeth my profound tutelage of E’lir Kvothe!”

  I sighed. If I left now, I could still catch my class in the Medica, but part of me suspected that this might be a test of some sort. Perhaps Elodin was simply making sure that I was genuinely interested before he accepted me as a student. That is the way it usually goes in stories: the young man has to prove his dedication to the old hermit in the woods before he’s taken under his wing.

  “Will you answer a few questions?” I asked.

  “Fine,” he said, holding up his hand with his thumb and forefinger curled in. “Three questions. If you agree to leave me be afterward.”

  I thought for a moment. “Why don’t you want to teach me?”

  “Because the Edema Ruh make exceptionally poor students,” he said brusquely. “They are fine for rote learning, but the study of naming requires a level of dedication that ravel such as yourself rarely possess.”

  My temper flared so hot and quick that I actually felt my skin flush. It started at my face and burned down my chest and arms. It made the hair on my arms prickle.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry that your experience with the Ruh has left something to be desired,” I said carefully. “Let me assure you that—”

  “Ye Gods,” Elodin sighed, disgusted. “A bootlicker too. You lack the requisite spine and testicular fortitude to study under me.”

  Hot words boiled up inside me. I fought them down. He was trying to bait me.

  “You aren’t telling me the truth,” I said. “Why don’t you want to teach me?”

  “For the same reason I don’t want a puppy!” Elodin shouted, waving his arms in the air like a farmer trying to startle crows out of a field. “Because you’re too short to be a namer. Your eyes are too green. You have the wrong number of fingers. Come back when you’re taller and you’ve found a decent pair of eyes.”

  We stared at each other for a long while. Finally he shrugged and start
ed walking again. “Fine. I’ll show you why.”

  We followed the road north. Elodin strolled along, picking up stones and tossing them into the trees. He jumped to snatch leaves from low-hanging branches, his master’s robes billowing ridiculously. At one point he stopped and stood motionless and intent for nearly half an hour, staring at a fern swaying slowly in the wind.

  But I kept the tip of my tongue firmly between my teeth. I didn’t ask, “Where are we going?” or “What are you looking at?” I knew a hundred stories about young boys who squandered questions or wishes by chatting them away. I had two questions left, and I was going to make them count.

  Eventually we emerged from the forest, and the road became a path leading up a vast lawn to a huge manor house. Bigger than the Artificery, it had elegant lines, a red tile roof, high windows, arched doorways and pillars. There were fountains, flowers, hedges….

  But something wasn’t quite right. The closer we got to the gates, the more I doubted this was some nobleman’s estate. Maybe it was something about the design of the gardens, or the fact that the wrought-iron fence surrounding the lawns was nearly ten feet tall and unclimbable to my well-trained thief’s eye.

  Two serious-eyed men opened the gate, and we continued up the path toward the front doors. Elodin looked at me. “Have you heard of Haven yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “It has other names: the Rookery, the Crockery….”

  The University asylum. “It’s huge. How…” I stopped before asking the question.

  Elodin grinned, knowing he’d almost caught me. “Jeremy,” he called out to the large man who stood at the front door. “How many guests do we have today?”

  “The desk could give you a count, sir,” he said uncomfortably.

  “Take a wild guess,” Elodin said. “We’re all friends here.”

  “Three-twenty?” the man said with a shrug. “Three-fifty?”

  Elodin rapped on the thick timber door with a knuckle, and the man scrambled to unlock it. “How many more could we fit if we needed?” Elodin asked him.

  “Another hundred-fifty easy.” Jeremy said, tugging the huge door open. “More in a pinch, I suppose.”