The Name of the Wind tkc-1

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Something about the low intensity of Kvothe’s voice broke the stare between them. And when they turned to look at him it seemed that someone very different was standing behind the bar. The jovial innkeeper was gone, and in his place stood someone dark and fierce.

  He’s so young, Chronicler marveled. He can’t be more than twenty-five. Why didn’t I see it before? He could break me in his hands like a kindling stick. How did I ever mistake him for an innkeeper, even for a moment?

  Then he saw Kvothe’s eyes. They had deepened to a green so dark they were nearly black. This is who I came to see, Chronicler thought to himself, this is the man who counseled kings and walked old roads with nothing but his wit to guide him. This is the man whose name has become both praise and curse at the University.

  Kvothe stared at Chronicler and Bast in turn; neither could meet his eye for very long. After an awkward pause, Bast extended his hand. Chronicler hesitated for a bare moment before reaching out quickly, as if he were sticking his hand into a fire.

  Nothing happened, both of them seemed moderately surprised.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Kvothe addressed them bitingly. “Five fingers and flesh with blood beneath. One could almost believe that on the other end of that hand lay a person of some sort.”

  Guilt crept into the expressions of the two men. They let go of each other’s hands.

  Kvothe poured something from the green bottle into the glasses. This simple gesture changed him. He seemed to fade back into himself, until there was little left of the dark-eyed man who’d stood behind the bar a moment ago. Chronicler felt a pang of loss as he stared at the innkeeper with one hand hidden in a linen rag.

  “Now.” Kvothe pushed the glasses toward them. “Take these drinks, sit at that table, and talk. When I come back, I don’t want to find either one of you dead or the building on fire. Fair?”

  Bast gave an embarrassed smile as Chronicler picked up the glasses and moved back to the table. Bast followed him and almost sat down before returning to grab the bottle too.

  “Not too much of that,” Kvothe cautioned as he stepped into the back room. “I don’t want you giggling through my story.”

  The two at the table began a tense, halting conversation as Kvothe moved into the kitchen. Several minutes later he emerged, bringing out cheese and a loaf of dark bread, cold chicken and sausage, butter and honey.

  They moved to a larger table as Kvothe brought the platters out, bustling about and looking every bit the innkeeper. Chronicler watched him covertly, finding it hard to believe that this man humming to himself and cutting sausage could be the same person who had stood behind the bar just minutes ago, dark-eyed and terrible.

  As Chronicler gathered his paper and quills, Kvothe studied the angle of the sun through the window, a pensive look on his face. Eventually he turned to Bast. “How much did you manage to overhear?”

  “Most of it, Reshi,” Bast smiled. “I have good ears.”

  “That’s good. We don’t have time to backtrack.” He drew a deep breath. “Let’s get back to it then. Brace yourselves, the story takes a turn now. Downward. Darker. Clouds on the horizon.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Name of the Wind

  Winter is a slow time of year for a traveling troupe, but Abenthy put it to good use and finally got around to teaching me sympathy in earnest. However, as is often the case, especially for children, the anticipation proved much more exciting than the reality.

  It would be wrong to say that I was disappointed with sympathy. But honestly, I was disappointed. It was not what I expected magic to be.

  It was useful. There was no denying that. Ben used sympathy to make light for our shows. Sympathy could start a fire without flint or lift a heavy weight without cumbersome ropes and pulleys.

  But the first time I’d seen him, Ben had somehow called the wind. That was no mere sympathy. That was storybook magic. That was the secret I wanted more than anything.

  Spring thaw was well behind us and the troupe was riding through the forests and fields of the western Commonwealth. I was riding along, as per normal, in the front of Ben’s wagon. Summer was just deciding to make itself known again and everything was green and growing.

  Things had been quiet for about an hour. Ben was drowsing with the reins held loosely in one hand when the wagon hit a stone and jarred us both out of our respective reveries.

  Ben pulled himself more upright in his seat, and addressed me in a tone I had grown to think of as Have-I-Got-a-Puzzle-for-You. “How would you bring a kettle of water to a boil?”

  Looking around I saw a large boulder by the side of the road. I pointed.

  “That stone should be warm from sitting in the sun. I’d bind it to the water in the kettle, and use the heat in the stone to bring the water to boil.”

  “Stone to water isn’t very efficient,” Ben chided me. “Only about one part in fifteen would end up warming the water.”

  “It would work.”

  “I’ll grant you that. But it’s sloppy. You can do better, E’lir.”

  He then proceeded to shout at Alpha and Beta, a sign that he was in a genuine good mood. They took it as calmly as ever, in spite of the fact that he accused them of things I’m sure no donkey has ever willingly done, especially not Beta, who possessed impeccable moral character.

  Stopping midtirade, he asked, “How would you bring down that bird?” He gestured to a hawk riding the air above a wheat field to the side of the road.

  “I probably wouldn’t. It’s done nothing to me.”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “I’m saying that, hypothetically, I wouldn’t do it.”

  Ben chuckled. “Point made, E’lir. Precisely how wouldn’t you do it? Details please.”

  “I’d get Teren to shoot it down.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Good, good. However, it is a matter between you and the bird. That hawk,” he gestured indignantly, “has said something uncouth about your mother.”

  “Ah. Then my honor demands I defend her good name myself.”

  “Indeed it does.”

  “Do I have a feather?”

  “No.”

  “Tehlu hold and—” I bit off the rest of what I was going to say at his disapproving look. “You never make it easy, do you?”

  “It’s an annoying habit I picked up from a student who was too clever for his own good.” He smiled. “What could you do even if you had a feather?”

  “I’d bind it to the bird and lather it with lye soap.”

  Ben furrowed his brow, such as it was. “What kind of binding?”

  “Chemical. Probably second catalytic.”

  A thoughtful pause. “Second catalytic …” He scratched at his chin. “To dissolve the oil that makes the feather smooth?”

  I nodded.

  He looked up at the bird. “I’ve never thought of that,” he said with a kind of quiet admiration. I took it as a compliment.

  “Nevertheless,” he looked back to me, “you have no feather. How do you bring it down?”

  I thought for several minutes, but couldn’t think of anything. I decided to try and turn this into a different sort of lesson.

  “I would,” I said casually, “simply call the wind, and make it strike the bird from the sky.”

  Ben gave me a calculating look that told me he knew exactly what I was up to. “And how would you do that, E’lir?”

  I sensed he might be ready to finally tell me the secret he had been keeping all through the winter months. At the same time I was struck with an idea.

  I drew in a deep breath and spoke the words to bind the air in my lungs to the air outside. I fixed the Alar firmly in my mind, put my thumb and forefinger in front of my pursed lips, and blew between them.

  There was a light puff of wind at my back that tousled my hair and caused the tarpaulin covering the wagon to pull taut for a moment. It might have been nothing more than a coincidence, but nevertheless, I felt an exultant smile overflow my face
. For a second I did nothing but grin like a maniac at Ben, his face dull with disbelief.

  Then I felt something squeeze my chest, as if I was deep underwater.

  I tried to draw a breath but couldn’t. Mildly confused, I kept trying. It felt as if I’d just fallen flat on my back and had the air driven from me.

  All in a rush I realized what I had done. My body exploded into a cold sweat and I grabbed frantically at Ben’s shirt, pointing at my chest, my neck, my open mouth.

  Ben’s face turned from shocked to ashen as he looked at me.

  I realized how still everything was. Not a blade of grass was stirring. Even the sound of the wagon seemed muted, as if far off in the distance.

  Terror screamed through my mind, drowning out any thought. I began to claw at my throat, ripping my shirt open. My heart thundered through the ringing in my ears. Pain stabbed through my straining chest as I gaped for air.

  Moving more quickly than I had ever seen before, Ben grabbed me by the tatters of my shirt and sprang from the seat of the wagon. Landing in the grass by the side of the road, he dashed me to the ground with such a force that, if I’d had any air in my lungs, it would have been driven out of me.

  Tears streaked my face as I thrashed blindly. I knew that I was going to die. My eyes felt hot and red. I raked madly at the earth with hands that were numb and cold as ice.

  I was aware of someone shouting, but it seemed very far away. Ben kneeled above me, but the sky was getting dim behind him. He seemed almost distracted, as if he were listening to something I couldn’t hear.

  Then he looked at me, all I remember were his eyes, they seemed far away and filled with a terrible power, dispassionate and cold.

  He looked at me. His mouth moved. He called the wind.

  A leaf in lightning, I shook. And the thunderclap was black.

  The next thing I remember was Ben helping me to my feet. I was dimly aware of the other wagons stopping and curious faces peering at us. My mother came away from our wagon and Ben met her halfway, chuckling and saying something reassuring. I couldn’t make out the words as I was focused on breathing deep, in and out.

  The other wagons trundled on, and I followed Ben mutely back to his wagon. He made a show of puttering around, checking the cords that held the tarpaulin tight. I collected my wits and was helping as best I could when the final wagon in the troupe passed us.

  When I looked up, Ben’s eyes were furious. “What were you thinking?” he hissed. “Well? What? What were you thinking?” I’d never seen him like this before, his whole body drawn up into a tight knot of anger. He was shaking with it. He drew back his arm to strike me … then stopped. After a moment his hand fell to his side.

  Moving methodically he checked the last couple of ropes and climbed back onto the wagon. Not knowing what else to do, I followed him.

  Ben twitched the reins and Alpha and Beta tugged the wagon into motion. We were last in line now. Ben stared straight ahead. I fingered the torn front of my shirt. It was tensely silent.

  In hindsight, what I had done was glaringly stupid. When I bound my breath to the air outside, it made it impossible for me to breathe. My lungs weren’t strong enough to move that much air. I would have needed a chest like an iron bellows. I would have had as much luck trying to drink a river or lift a mountain.

  We rode for about two hours in an uncomfortable silence. The sun was brushing the tops of the trees when Ben finally drew in a deep breath and let it out in an explosive sigh. He handed me the reins.

  When I looked back at him I realized for the first time how old he was. I had always known he was nearing his third score of years, but I’d never seen him look it before.

  “I lied to your mother back there, Kvothe. She saw the end of what happened and was worried about you.” His eyes didn’t move from the wagon ahead of ours as he spoke. “I told her we were working on something for a performance. She’s a good woman. She deserves better than lies.”

  We rode on in an endless agony of silence, but it was still a few hours before sunset when I heard voices calling “Greystone!” down the line. The bump of our wagon turning onto the grass jostled Ben from his brooding.

  He looked around and saw the sun was still in the sky. “Why are we stopping so early? Tree across the road?”

  “Greystone.” I gestured up ahead to the slab of stone that loomed over the tops of the wagons ahead of us.

  “What?”

  “Every once in a while we run across one by the road.” I gestured again to the greystone peering over the tops of smaller trees by the roadside. Like most greystones it was a crudely hewn rectangle about a dozen feet tall. The wagons gathering around it seemed rather insubstantial compared to the stone’s solid presence. “I’ve heard them called standing stones, but I’ve seen a lot of them that weren’t standing, just lying on their sides. We always stop for the day when we find one, unless we’re in a terrible hurry.” I stopped, realizing I was babbling.

  “I’ve known them by a different name. Waystones,” Ben said quietly. He looked old and tired. After a moment he asked, “Why do you stop when you find one?”

  “We just always do. It’s a break from the road.” I thought for a moment. “I think they’re supposed to be good luck.” I wished I had more to say to keep the conversation going, his interest piqued, but I couldn’t think of anything else.

  “I suppose they could be at that.” Ben guided Alpha and Beta into a spot on the far side of the stone, away from most of the other wagons. “Come back for dinner or soon afterward. We need to talk.” He turned without looking at me and began to unhitch Alpha from the wagon.

  I’d never seen Ben in a mood like this before. Worried that I’d ruined things between us, I turned and ran to my parents’ wagon.

  I found my mother sitting in front of a fresh fire, slowly adding twigs to build it up. My father sat behind her, rubbing her neck and shoulders. They both looked up at the sound of my feet running toward them.

  “Can I eat with Ben tonight?”

  My mother looked up at my father, then back to me. “You shouldn’t make yourself a nuisance, dear.”

  “He invited. If I go now, I can help him set up for the night.”

  She wiggled her shoulders, and my father started rubbing them again. She smiled at me. “Fair enough, but don’t keep him up until the wee hours.” She smiled at me. “Give me a kiss.” She held out her arms and I gave her a hug and a kiss.

  My father gave me a kiss too. “Let me have your shirt. It’ll give me something to do while your mother fixes dinner.” He skinned me out of it and fingered the torn edges. “This shirt is wholly holey, more than it has any right to be.”

  I started to stammer out an explanation but he waved it aside. “I know, I know, it was all for the greater good. Try to be more careful, or I’ll make you sew it yourself. There’s a fresh one in your trunk. Bring me needle and thread while you’re in there, if you’d be so kind.”

  I made a dash into the back of the wagon and drew on a fresh shirt. While I rummaged around for needle and thread I heard my mother singing:

  “In evening when the sun is setting fast,

  I’ll watch for you from high above

  The time for your return is long since past

  But mine is ever-faithful love.”

  My father answered:

  “In evening when the light is dying

  My feet at last are homeward turning

  The wind is through the willows sighing

  Please keep the hearthfire burning.”

  When I came out of the wagon, he had her in a dramatic dip and was giving her a kiss. I set the needle and thread next to my shirt and waited. It seemed like a good kiss. I watched with a calculating eye, dimly aware that at some point in the future I might want to kiss a lady. If I did, I wanted to do a decent job of it.

  After a moment my father noticed me and stood my mother back on her feet. “That will be ha’penny for the show, Master Voyeur,” he laughed. “What
are you still here for, boy? I’ll bet you the same ha’penny that a question slowed you down.”

  “Why do we stop for the greystones?”

  “Tradition, my boy,” he said grandly, throwing his arms wide. “And superstition. They are one and the same, anyway. We stop for good luck and because everyone enjoys an unexpected holiday.” He paused. “I used to know a bit of poem about them. How did it go … ?

  “Like a drawstone even in our sleep

  Standing stone by old road is the way

  To lead you ever deeper into Fae.

  Laystone as you lay in hill or dell

  Greystone leads to something something ‘ell’.”

  My father stood for a second or two looking off into space and tugging at his lower lip. Finally he shook his head. “Can’t remember the end of that last line. Lord but I dislike poetry. How can anyone remember words that aren’t put to music?” His forehead creased with concentration as he mouthed the words silently to himself.

  “What’s a drawstone?” I asked.

  “It’s an old name for loden-stones,” my mother explained. “They’re pieces of star-iron that draw all other iron toward themselves. I saw one years ago in a curiosity cabinet.” She looked up at my father who was still muttering to himself. “We saw the loden-stone in Peleresin, didn’t we?”

  “Hmmm? What?” The question jogged him out of his reverie. “Yes. Peleresin.” He tugged at his lip again and frowned. “Remember this, son, if you forget everything else. A poet is a musician who can’t sing. Words have to find a man’s mind before they can touch his heart, and some men’s minds are woeful small targets. Music touches their hearts directly no matter how small or stubborn the mind of the man who listens.”

  My mother made a slightly unladylike snort. “Elitist. You’re just getting old.” She gave a dramatic sigh. “Truly, all the more’s the tragedy; the second thing to go is a man’s memory.”

  My father puffed up into an indignant pose but my mother ignored him and said to me, “Besides, the only tradition that keeps troupes by the greystone is laziness. The poem should run like this: