His destruction was annoying, and impoverished many a farmer, but alone it would have done little to hurt the Nefyrre. Except that Cer felt his power over the desert growing. For he was feeding the desert the only thing it hungered for: death and dryness.
He began to speak to the sand again, not kindly, but of land to the east that the sand could cover. And the wind followed his words, whipping the sand, moving the dunes. Where he stood the wind did not touch him, but all around him the dunes moved like waves of the sea.
Moving eastward.
Moving into the lands of the Nefyrre.
And now the hungry desert could do in a night a hundred times more than Cer could do alone with a torch or a knife. It ate olive groves in an hour. The sand borne on the wind filled houses in a night, buried cities in a week, and in only three months had driven the Nefyrre across the Greebeck and the Nefyr River, where they thought the terrible sandstorms could not follow.
But the storms followed. Cer taught the desert almost to fill the river, so that the water spread out a foot deep and miles wide, flooding some lands that had been dry, but also leaving more water surface for the sun to drink from; and before the river reached the sea it was dry, and the desert swept across into the heart of Nefyryd.
The Nefyrre had always fought with the force of arms, and cruelty was their companion in war. But against the desert they were helpless. They could not fight the sand. If Cer could have known it, he would have gloried in the fact that, untaught, he was the most powerful sandmage who had ever lived. For hate was a greater teacher than any of the books of dark lore, and Cer lived on hate.
And on hate alone, for now he ate and drank nothing, sustaining his body through the power of the wind and the heat of the sun. He was utterly dry, and the blood no longer coursed through his veins. He lived on the energy of the storms he unleashed. And the desert eagerly fed him, because he was feeding the desert.
He followed his storms, and walked through the deserted towns of the Nefyrre. He saw the refugees rushing north and east to the high ground. He saw the corpses of those caught in the storm. And he sang at night the old songs of Greet, the war songs. He wrote his father’s name with chalk on the wall of every city he destroyed. He wrote his mother’s name in the sand, and where he had written her name the wind did not blow and the sand did not shift, but preserved the writing as if it had been incised on rock.
Then one day, in a lull between his storms, Cer saw a man coming toward him from the east. Abadapnu, he wondered, or Nefyrre? Either way he drew his knife, and fit the nock of an arrow on his bowstring.
But the man came with his hands extended, and he called out, “Cer Cemreet.”
It had never occurred to Cer that anyone knew his name.
“Sandmage Cer Cemreet,” said the man when he was close. “We have found who you are.”
Cer said nothing, but only watched the man’s eyes.
“I have come to tell you that your vengeance is full. Nefyryd is at its knees. We have signed a treaty with Greet and we no longer raid into Hetterwee. Driplin has seized our westernmost lands.”
Cer smiled. “I care nothing for your empire.”
“Then for our people. The deaths of your father and mother have been avenged a hundred thousand times, for over two hundred thousand people have died at your hands.”
Cer chuckled. “I care nothing for your people.”
“Then for the soldiers who did the deed. Though they acted under orders, they have been arrested and killed, as have the men who gave them those orders, even our first general, all at the command of the King so that your vengeance will be complete. I have brought you their ears as proof of it,” said the man, and he took a pouch from his waist.
“I care nothing for the soldiers, nor for proof of vengeance,” said Cer.
“Then what do you care for?” asked the man quietly.
“Death,” said Cer.
“Then I bring you that, too,” said the man, and a knife was in his hand, and he plunged the knife into Cer’s breast where his heart should have been. But when the man pulled the knife out no blood followed, and Cer only smiled.
“Indeed you brought it to me,” said Cer, and he stabbed the man where his father had been stabbed, and drew the knife up as it had been drawn through his father’s body, except that he touched the man’s heart, and he died.
As Cer watched the blood soaking into the sand, he heard in his ears his mother’s screams, which he had silenced for these years. He heard her screams and now, remembering his father and his mother and himself as a child he began to cry, and he held the body of the man he had killed and rocked back and forth on the sand as the blood clotted on his clothing and his skin. His tears mixed with the blood and poured into the sand and Cer realized that this was the first time since his father’s death that he had shed any tears at all.
I am not dry, thought Cer. There is water under me still for the desert to drink.
He looked at his dry hands, covered with the man’s blood, and tried to scrub off the clotted blood with sand. But the blood stayed, and the sand could not clean him.
He wept again. And then he stood and faced the desert to the west, and he said, “Come.”
A breeze began.
“Come,” he said to the desert, “come and dry my eyes.”
And the wind came up, and the sand came, and Cer Cemreet was buried in the sand, and his eyes became dry, and the last life passed from his body, and the last sandmage passed from the world.
Then came the winter rains, and the refugees of Nefyryd returned to their land. The soldiers were called home, for the wars were over, and now their weapons were the shovel and the plow. They redug the trench of the Nefyr and the Greebeck, and the river soon flowed deep again to the sea. They scattered grass seed and cleaned their houses of sand. They carried water into the ruined fields with ditches and aqueducts.
Slowly life returned to Nefyryd.
And the desert, having lost its mage, retreated quietly to its old borders, never again to seek death where there was life. Plenty of death already where nothing lived, plenty of dryness to drink where there was no water.
In a wood a little way from the crest of the Mitherkame, a treemage heard the news from a wandering tinker.
The treemage went out into the forest and spoke softly to the Elm, to the Oak, to the Redwood, to the Sweet Aspen. And when all had heard the news, the forest wept for Cer Cemreet, and each tree gave a twig to be burned in his memory, and shed sap to sink into the ground in his name.
The Road to Levinshir
Patrick Rothfuss
Patrick Rothfuss was born in Madison, Wisconsin. In April 2007, The Name of the Wind was published and met with surprising success. In the years since, it has been translated into thirty languages, won all manner of awards, and become a bestseller in several countries. The sequel, The Wise Man’s Fear came out in March 2011, immediately hitting #1 on the New York Times bestseller list. When not working on the third book of the series, Pat plays with his baby, makes mead, and runs Worldbuilders, a geek-centered charity that has raised more than a million dollars for Heifer International.
Chapter 1: Wine and Water
I was walking one of those long, lonely stretches of road you only find in the low hills of eastern Vintas. I was, as my father used to say, on the edge of the map.
I had passed one or two travelers all day and not a single inn. The thought of sleeping outdoors wasn’t particularly troubling, but I had been eating from my pockets for a couple days, and a warm meal would have been a welcome thing.
Night had nearly fallen, and I had given up hope of something decent in my stomach when I spotted a line of white smoke trailing into the twilight sky ahead of me. I took it for a farmhouse at first. Then I heard a faint strain of music and my hopes for a bed and a hearth-hot meal began to rise.
But as I came around a curve in the road I found a surprise better than any roadside inn. Through the trees I saw a tall campfire flickering be
tween two achingly familiar wagons. Men and women lounged about, talking. One strummed a lute, while another tapped a small tabor idly against his leg. Others were pitching a tent between two trees while an older woman set a tripod over the fire.
Troupers. What’s better, I recognized familiar markings on the side of one of the wagons. To me they stood out more brightly than the fire. Those signs meant these were true troupers. My family, the Edema Ruh.
As I stepped from the trees, one of the men gave a shout, and before I could draw breath to speak there were three swords pointing at me. The sudden stillness after the music and chatter was more than slightly unnerving.
A handsome man with a black beard and a silver earring took a slow step forward, never taking the tip of his sword off my eye. “Otto!” he shouted into the woods behind me. “If you’re napping I swear on my mother’s milk I’ll gut you. Who the hell are you?”
The last was directed at me. But before I could respond, a voice came out of the trees. “I’m right here, Alleg, as... Who’s that? How in the God’s name did he get past me?”
When they’d drawn their swords on me, I’d raised my hands. It’s a good habit to have when anyone points something sharp at you. Nevertheless I was smiling as I spoke. “Sorry to startle you, Alleg....”
“Save it,” he said coldly. “You have one breath left to tell me why you were sneaking around our camp.”
I had no need to talk, and instead turned so everyone by the fire could see the lutecase slung across my back.
The change in Alleg’s attitude was immediate. He relaxed and sheathed his sword. The others followed suit as he smiled and approached me, laughing.
I laughed too. “One family.”
“One family.” He shook my hand and turned toward the fire, shouting, “Best behavior everyone. We have a guest tonight!” There was a low cheer, and everyone went busily back to whatever they had been doing before I arrived.
A thick-bodied man wearing a sword stomped out of the trees. “I’ll be damned if he came past me, Alleg. He’s probably from—”
“He’s from our family,” Alleg interjected smoothly.
“Oh,” Otto said, obviously taken aback. He looked at my lute. “Welcome then.”
“I didn’t go past, actually,” I lied. When it was dark, my shaed made me very difficult to see. But that wasn’t his fault, and I didn’t want to get him in trouble. “I heard the music and circled around. I thought you might be a different troupe, and I was going to surprise them.”
Otto gave Alleg a pointed look, then turned and stomped back into the woods.
Alleg put his arm around my shoulders. “Might I offer you a drink?”
“A little water, if you can spare it.”
“No guest drinks water by our fire,” he protested. “Only our best wine will touch your lips.”
“The water of the Edema is sweeter than wine to those who have been upon the road.” I smiled at him.
“Then have water and wine, each to your desire.” He led me to one of the wagons, where there was a water barrel.
Following a tradition older than time, I drank a ladle of water and used a second to wash my hands and face. Patting my face dry with the sleeve of my shirt, I looked up at him and smiled. “It’s good to be home again.”
He clapped me on the back. “Come. Let me introduce you to the rest of your family.”
First were two men of about twenty, with scruffy beards. “Fren and Josh are our two best singers, excepting myself of course.” I shook their hands.
Next were the two men playing instruments around the fire. “Gaskin plays lute. Laren does pipes and tabor.” They smiled at me. Laren struck the head of the tabor with his thumb, and the drum made a mellow tum.
“There’s Tim.” Alleg pointed across the fire to a tall, grim man oiling a sword. “And you’ve already met Otto. They keep us from falling into danger on the road.” Tim nodded, looking up briefly from his sword.
“This is Anne.” Alleg gestured to an older woman with a pinched expression and a grey bun of hair. “She keeps us fed and plays mother to us all.” Anne continued to cut carrots, ignoring both of us.
“And far from last is our own sweet Kete, who holds the key to all our hearts.” Kete had hard eyes and a mouth like a thin line, but her expression softened a little when I kissed her hand.
“And that’s everyone,” Alleg said with a smile and a little bow. “Your name is?”
“Kvothe.”
“Welcome, Kvothe. Rest yourself and be at your ease. Is there anything we can do for you?”
“A bit of that wine you mentioned earlier?” I smiled.
He touched the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Of course! Or would you prefer ale?”
I nodded, and he fetched me a mug.
“Excellent,” I said after tasting it, seating myself on a convenient stump.
He tipped an imaginary hat. “Thank you. We were lucky enough to nick it on our way through Levinshir a couple days ago. How has the road been treating you of late?”
I stretched backwards and sighed. “Not bad for a lone minstrel.” I shrugged. “I take advantage of what opportunities present themselves. I have to be careful since I’m alone.”
Alleg nodded wisely. “The only safety we have is in numbers,” he admitted, then nodded to my lute. “Would you favor us with a bit of a song while we’re waiting for Anne to finish dinner?”
“Certainly,” I said, setting down my drink. “What would you like to hear?”
“Can you play, ‘Leave the Town, Tinker’?”
“Can I? You tell me.” I lifted my lute from its case and began to play. By the chorus, everyone had stopped what they were doing to listen. I even caught sight of Otto near the edge of the trees as he left his lookout to peer toward the fire.
When I was done, everyone applauded enthusiastically. “You can play it,” Alleg laughed. Then his expression became serious, and he tapped a finger to his mouth. “How would you like to walk the road with us for a while?” he asked after a moment. “We could use another player.”
I took a moment to consider it. “Which way are you heading?”
“Easterly,” he said.
“I’m bound for Severen,” I said.
Alleg shrugged. “We can make it to Severen,” he said. “So long as you don’t mind taking the long way around.”
“I have been away from the family for a long time,” I admitted, looking at the familiar sights around the fire.
“One is a bad number for an Edema on the road,” Alleg said persuasively, running a finger along the edge of his dark beard.
I sighed. “Ask me again in the morning.”
He slapped my knee, grinning. “Good! That means we have all night to convince you.”
I replaced my lute and excused myself for a call of nature. Coming back, I knelt next to Anne where she sat near the fire. “What are you making for us, mother?” I asked.
“Stew,” she said shortly.
I smiled. “What’s in it?”
Anne squinted at me. “Lamb,” she said, as if daring me to challenge the fact.
“It’s been a long while since I’ve had lamb, mother. Could I have a taste?”
“You’ll wait, same as everyone else,” she said sharply.
“Not even a small taste?” I wheedled, giving her my best ingratiating smile.
The old woman drew a breath, then shrugged it away. “Fine,” she said. “But it won’t be my fault if your stomach sets to aching.”
I laughed. “No, mother. It won’t be your fault.” I reached for the long-handled wooden spoon and drew it out. After blowing on it, I took a bite. “Mother!” I exclaimed. “This is the best thing to touch my lips in a full year.”
“Hmmmph,” she said, squinting at me.
“It’s the first truth, mother,” I said earnestly. “Anyone who does not enjoy this fine stew is hardly one of the Ruh in my opinion.”
Anne turned back to stir the pot and shooed me aw
ay, but her expression wasn’t as sharp as it had been before.
After stopping by the keg to refill my mug, I returned to my seat. Gaskin leaned forward. “You’ve given us a song. Is there anything you’d like to hear?"
“How about ‘Piper Wit’?” I asked.
His brow furrowed. “I don’t recognize that one.”
“It’s about a clever Ruh who outwits a farmer.”
Gaskin shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
I bent to pick up my lute. “Let me. It’s a song every one of us should know.”
“Pick something else,” Laren protested. “I’ll play you something on the pipes. You’ve played for us once already tonight.”
I smiled at him. “I forgot you piped. You’ll like this one.” I assured him, “Piper’s the hero. Besides, you’re feeding my belly, I’ll feed your ears.” Before they could raise any more objections, I started to play, quick and light.
They laughed through the whole thing. From the beginning when Piper kills the farmer, to the end when he seduces the dead man’s wife and daughter. I left off the last two verses where the townsfolk kill Piper.
Laren wiped his eyes after I was done. “Heh. You’re right, Kvothe. I’m better off knowing that one. Besides...” He shot a look at Kete where she sat across the fire. “It’s an honest song. Women can’t keep their hands off a piper.”
Kete snorted derisively and rolled her eyes.
We talked of small things until Anne announced the stew was done. Everyone fell to, breaking the silence only to compliment Anne on her cooking.
“Honestly, Anne,” Alleg asked after his second bowl, “did you lift a little pepper back in Levinshir?”
Anne looked smug. “We all need our secrets, dear,” she said. “Don’t press a lady.”
I asked Alleg, “Have times been good for you and yours?”
“Oh certainly,” he said between mouthfuls. “Three days ago Levinshir was especially good to us.” He winked. “You’ll see how good later.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
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