Kingkiller Chronicle [01] The Name of the Wind

by Patrick Rothfuss

  More unsettling than the wreckage was the fact that the workshop was deserted. I’d never seen the place empty before. I knocked on Kilvin’s office door, then peered inside. Empty. That made a certain amount of sense. Without Kilvin, there was no one to organize the clean up.

  Finishing the emitters took hours longer than I’d expected. My injuries distracted me, and my bandaged thumb made my hand slightly clumsy. As with most artificing, this job required two skilled hands. Even the minor encumbrance of a bandage was a serious inconvenience.

  Still, I finished the project without incident and was just preparing to test the emitters when I heard Kilvin in the hallway, cursing in Siaru. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see him stomp through the doorway toward his office, followed by one of Master Arwyl’s gillers.

  I closed the fume hood and walked toward Kilvin’s office, mindful of where I set my bare feet. Through the window, I could see Kilvin waving his arms like a farmer shooing crows. His hands were swathed in white bandages nearly to the elbow. “Enough,” he said. “I will tend them myself.”

  The man caught hold of one of Kilvin’s arms and made adjustments to the bandages. Kilvin pulled his hands away and held them high in the air, out of reach. “Lhinsatva. Enough is enough.” The man said something too quiet for me to hear, but Kilvin continued to shake his head. “No. And no more of your drugs. I have slept long enough.”

  Kilvin motioned me inside. “E’lir Kvothe. I need to speak to you.”

  Not knowing what to expect, I stepped into his office. Kilvin gave me a dark look. “Do you see what I find after the fire is quenched?” He asked, gesturing toward a mass of dark cloth on his private worktable. Kilvin lifted one corner of it carefully with a bandaged hand and I recognized it as the charred remains of my cloak. Kilvin shook it once, sharply, and my hand lamp tumbled free, rolling awkwardly across the table.

  “We spoke about your thieves’ lamp not more than two days ago. Yet today I find it lying about where anyone of questionable character might take it for their own.” He scowled at me. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  I gaped. “I’m sorry Master Kilvin. I was…They took me away…”

  He glanced at my feet, still scowling. “And why are you unshod? Even an E’lir should have better sense than to wander naked-footed in a place such as this. Your behavior lately has been quite reckless. I am dismayed.”

  As I fumbled about for an explanation, Kilvin’s grim expression spread into a sudden smile. “I am joking with you, of course,” he said gently. “I owe you a great weight of thanks for pulling Re’lar Fela from the fire today.” He reached out to pat me on the shoulder, then thought better of it when he remembered the bandages on his hand.

  I felt my body go limp with relief. I picked up the lamp and turned it over in my hand. It didn’t seem to have been damaged by the fire or corroded by the bone-tar.

  Kilvin brought out a small sack and lay it on the table as well. “These things were also in your cloak,” he said. “Many things. Your pockets were full as a tinker’s pack.”

  “You seem in a good mood, Master Kilvin,” I said cautiously, wondering what painkiller he’d been given at the Medica.

  “I am,” he said cheerfully. “Do you know the saying ‘Chan Vaen edan Kote’?”

  I tried to puzzle it out. “Seven years…I don’t know Kote.”

  “‘Expect disaster every seven years,’” he said. “It is an old saying, and true enough. This has been two years overdue.” He gestured to the wreckage of his shop with a bandaged hand. “And now that it has come, it proves a mild disaster. My lamps were undamaged. No one was killed. Of all the small injuries, mine were the worst, as it should be.”

  I eyed his bandages, my stomach clenching at the thought of something happening to his skilled artificer’s hands. “How are you?” I asked carefully.

  “Second-grade burns,” he said, then waved away my concerned exclamation before it hardly began. “Just blisters. Painful, but no charring, no long-term loss of mobility.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “Still, I will have a damned time getting any work done for the next three span.”

  “If all you need is hands, I could lend them, Master Kilvin.”

  He gave a respectful nod. “That is a generous offer, E’lir. If it were merely a matter of hands I would accept. But much of my work involves sygaldry that would be…” he paused, choosing his next word carefully, “…unwise for an E’lir to have contact with.”

  “Then you should promote me to Re’lar, Master Kilvin.” I said with a smile. “So I might better serve you.”

  He gave a deep chuckle. “I may at that. If you continue your good works.”

  I decided to change the subject, rather than push my luck. “What went wrong with the canister?”

  “Too cold,” Kilvin said. “The metal was just a shell, protecting a glass container inside and keeping the temperature low. I suspect that the canister’s sygaldry was damaged so it grew colder and colder. When the reagent froze…”

  I nodded, finally understanding. “It cracked the inner glass container. Like a bottle of beer when it freezes. Then ate through the metal of the canister.”

  Kilvin nodded. “Jaxim is currently under the weight of my displeasure,” he said darkly. “He told me you brought it to his attention.”

  “I was sure the whole building would burn to the ground,” I said. “I can’t imagine how you managed to get it under control so easily.”

  “Easily?” he asked, sounding vaguely amused. “Quickly, yes. But I did not know it was easily.”

  “How did you manage it?”

  He smiled at me. “Good question. How do you think?”

  “Well, I heard one student say that you strode out of your office and called the fire’s name, just like Taborlin the Great. You said, ‘fire be still’ and the fire obeyed.”

  Kilvin gave a great laugh. “I like that story,” he said, grinning widely behind his beard. “But I have a question for you. How did you make it through the fire? The reagent produces a most intense flame. How is it you are not burned?”

  “I used a drench to wet myself, Master Kilvin.”

  Kilvin looked thoughtful. “Jaxim saw you leaping through the fire just moments after the reagent spilled. The drench is quick, but not so quick as that.”

  “I’m afraid I broke it, Master Kilvin. It seemed the only way.”

  Kilvin squinted through the window of his office, frowned, then left and walked to the other end of the shop toward the shattered drench. Kneeling down, he picked up a jagged piece of glass between his bandaged fingers. “How in all the four corners did you manage to break my drench, E’lir Kvothe?”

  His tone was so puzzled that I actually laughed. “Well, Master Kilvin, according to the students, I staved it in with a single blow from my mighty hand.”

  Kilvin grinned again. “I like that story too, but I do not believe it.”

  “More reputable sources claim I used a piece of bar-iron from a nearby table.”

  Kilvin shook his head. “You are a fine boy, but this twice-tough glass was made by my own hands. Broad-shouldered Cammar could not break it with an anvil hammer.” He dropped the piece of glass and came back to his feet. “Let the others tell whatever stories they wish, but between us let us share secrets.”

  “It’s no great mystery,” I admitted. “I know the sygaldry for twice-tough glass. What I can make, I can break.”

  “But where was your source?” Kilvin said. “You could have nothing ready on such short notice….” I held up my bandaged thumb. “Blood,” he said, sounding surprised. “Using the heat of your blood could be called reckless, E’lir Kvothe. What of binder’s chills? What if you had gone into hypothermic shock?”

  “My options were rather limited, Master Kilvin,” I said.

  Kilvin nodded thoughtfully. “Quite impressive, to unbind what I have wrought with nothing more than blood.” He started to run a hand through his beard, then frowned in irritation whe
n the bandages made this impossible.

  “What of you, Master Kilvin? How did you manage to get the fire under control?”

  “Not using the name of fire,” he conceded. “If Elodin had been here, matters would have been much simpler. But as the name of fire is unknown to me, I was left to my own devices.”

  I gave him a cautious look, not sure whether he was making another joke or not. Kilvin’s deadpan humor was hard to detect at times. “Elodin knows the name of fire?”

  Kilvin nodded. “There may be one or two others here at the University, but Elodin has the surest grip of it.”

  “The name of fire,” I said slowly. “And they could have called it and the fire would have done what they said, like Taborlin the Great?”

  Kilvin nodded again.

  “But those are just stories,” I protested.

  He gave me an amused look. “Where do you think stories come from, E’lir Kvothe? Every tale has deep roots somewhere in the world.”

  “What sort of a name is it? How does it work?”

  Kilvin hesitated for a moment, then shrugged his massive shoulders. “It is troublesome to explain in this language. In any language. Ask Elodin—he makes a habit of studying such things.”

  I knew firsthand how helpful Elodin would be. “So how did you stop the fire?”

  “There is little mystery in it,” he said. “I was prepared for such an accident and had a small vial of the reagent in my office. I used it as a link and drew heat from the spill. The reagent grew too cold to boil and the remaining fog burned away. The lion’s share of the reagent drained down the grates while Jaxim and the others scattered lime and sand to control what was left.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I said. “It was a furnace in here. You couldn’t have moved that many thaums of heat. Where would you have put it?”

  “I had an empty heat-eater ready for just such an emergency. Fire is the simplest of troubles I have prepared for.”

  I waved his explanation aside. “Even so, there’s no way. It must have been…” I tried to calculate how much heat he would have had to move, but stalled out, not knowing where to begin.

  “I estimate eight hundred fifty million thaums,” Kilvin said. “Though we must check the trap for a more accurate number.”

  I was speechless. “But…how?”

  “Quickly,” he made a significant gesture with his bandaged hands, “but not easily.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  The Ever-Changing Wind

  I TRUDGED THROUGH THE next day barefoot, cloakless, and thinking grim thoughts about my life. The novelty of playing hero faded quickly in light of my situation. I had one ragged suit of clothes. My flash burns were minor but incessantly painful. I had no money to buy painkillers or new clothes. I chewed bitter willow bark and bitter was my mood.

  My poverty hung around my neck like a heavy stone. Never before had I been more aware of the difference between myself and the other students. Everyone attending the University had a safety net to fall back on. Sim’s parents were Aturan nobility. Wil came from a wealthy merchant family in the Shald. If things got rough for them, they could borrow against their families’ credit or write a letter home.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t afford shoes. I only owned one shirt. How could I hope to stay in the University for the years it would take me to become a full arcanist? How could I hope to advance in the ranks without access to the Archives?

  By noon, I had worked myself into such a grim mood that I snapped at Sim during lunch and we bickered like an old married couple. Wilem offered no opinion, keeping his eyes carefully on his food. Finally, in a blatant attempt to dispel my foul mood they invited me to go see Three Pennies for Wishing across the river tomorrow evening. I agreed to go, as I’d heard the players were doing Feltemi’s original and not one of the expurgated versions. It was well suited to my mood, full of dark humor, tragedy, and betrayal.

  After lunch I found Kilvin had already sold half my emitters. Since they were going to be the last blue emitters made for some time, the price was high, and my share was slightly over a talent and a half. I expected Kilvin might have padded the price a little, which rankled my pride a bit, but I was in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  But even this did nothing to improve my mood. Now I could afford shoes and a secondhand cloak. If I worked like a dog for the remainder of the term I might be able to earn enough to eke out my interest to Devi and tuition as well. The thought brought me no joy. More than ever I was aware how tenuous my situation was. I was a hairsbreadth away from disaster.

  My mood spiraled downward and I skipped Advanced Sympathy in favor of going over the river to Imre. The thought of seeing Denna was the only thing that had the potential to raise my spirits a little. I still needed to explain to her why I’d missed our lunch date.

  On my way to the Eolian I bought a pair of low boots, good for walking and warm enough for the winter months ahead. It nearly emptied my purse again. I sullenly counted my money as I left the cobbler’s shop: three jots and a drab. I’d had more money living on the streets of Tarbean….

  “Your timing’s good today,” Deoch said as I approached the Eolian. “We’ve got someone waiting for you.”

  I felt a foolish grin spread to my face and clapped him on the shoulder as I headed inside.

  Instead of Denna I spotted Fela sitting at a table by herself. Stanchion stood nearby, chatting with her. When he saw me approaching, he waved me over and wandered back to his usual perch at the bar, clapping me affectionately on the shoulder as he walked by.

  When she saw me, Fela came to her feet and rushed toward me. For a second I thought she was going to run into my arms as if we were reunited lovers in some overacted Aturan tragedy. But she pulled up short of that, her dark hair swinging. She was lovely as always, but with a heavy, purpling bruise darkening one of her high cheekbones.

  “Oh no,” I said, my hand going to my face in sympathetic pain. “Is that from when I dropped you? I’m so sorry.”

  She gave me an incredulous look, then burst out laughing. “You’re apologizing for pulling me out of a fiery hell?”

  “Just the part where I passed out and dropped you. It was sheer stupidity. I forgot to hold my breath and sucked down some bad air. Were you hurt anywhere else?”

  “Nowhere I can show you in public,” she said with a slight grimace, shifting her hips in a way I found most distracting.

  “Nothing too bad, I hope.”

  She put on an fierce expression. “Yes, well. I expect you to do a better job next time. A girl gets her life saved, she expects gentler treatment all-round.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, relaxing. “We’ll treat this as a practice run.”

  There was a heartbeat of silence between us, and Fela’s smile faded a bit. She reached out halfway to me with one hand, then hesitated and let it fall back to her side. “Seriously, Kvothe. I…that was the worst moment of my whole life. There was fire everywhere….”

  She looked down, blinking. “I knew I was going to die. I really knew it. But I just stood there like…like some scared rabbit.” She looked up, blinking away tears and her smile burst out again, dazzling as ever. “Then you were there, running through the fire. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. It was like…have you ever seen Daeonica?”

  I nodded and smiled.

  “It was like watching Tarsus bursting out of hell. You came through the fire and I knew everything was going to be alright.” She took a half step toward me and rested her hand on my arm. I could feel the warmth of it through my shirt. “I was going to die there—” she broke off, embarrassed. “I’m just repeating myself now.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not true. I saw you. You were looking for a way out.”

  “No. I was just standing there. Like one of those silly girls in those stories my mother used to read me. I always hated them. I used to ask, ‘Why doesn’t she push the witch out the window? Why doesn’t she poison the ogre�
�s food?’” Fela was looking down at her feet now, her hair falling to hide her face. Her voice grew softer and softer until it was barely louder than a sigh. “‘Why does she just sit there waiting to be saved? Why doesn’t she save herself?’”

  I lay my hand on top of hers in what I hoped was a comforting way. When I did, I noticed something. Her hand wasn’t the delicate, fragile thing I had expected. It was strong and calloused, a sculptor’s hand that knew hard hours of work with hammer and chisel.

  “This isn’t a maiden’s hand,” I said.

  She looked up at me, her eyes luminous with the beginning of tears. She gave a startled laugh that was half sob. “I…what?”

  I flushed with embarrassment as I realized what I’d said, but pushed ahead. “This isn’t the hand of some swooning princess who sits tatting lace and waiting for some prince to save her. This is the hand of a woman who would climb a rope of her own hair to freedom, or kill a captor ogre in his sleep.” I looked into her eyes. “And this is the hand of a woman who would have made it through the fire on her own if I hadn’t been there. Singed perhaps, but safe.”

  I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it. It seemed like the thing to do. “All the same, I am glad I was there to help.” I smiled. “So…like Tarsus?”

  Her smile dazzled me again. “Like Tarsus, Prince Gallant, and Oren Velciter all rolled into one,” she said laughing. She gripped my hand. “Come see. I have something for you.”

  Fela pulled me back to the table where she’d been sitting and handed me a bundle of cloth. “I asked Wil and Sim what I could get you as a gift, and it seemed somehow appropriate….” She paused, suddenly shy.

  It was a cloak. It was a deep forest green, rich cloth, fine cut. It hadn’t been bought off the back of some fripperer’s cart, either. This was the sort of clothing I could never hope to afford for myself.