The Name of the Wind tkc-1

by Patrick Rothfuss

  My mind raced. “Most students are from well-to-do families,” I said. “They’ve led easy lives. When forced to …”

  “Wrong,” Elodin said dismissively turning to walk down the hall. “It is because of what we study. Because of the way we train our minds to move.”

  “So ciphering and grammar make people crazy,” I said, taking care to phrase it as a statement.

  Elodin stopped walking and wrenched open the nearest door. Panicked screaming burst out into the hallway. “… IN ME! THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE IN ME!” Through the open door I could see a young man thrashing against the leather restraints that bound him to the bed at wrist, waist, neck, and ankle.

  “Trigonometry and diagrammed logic don’t do this,” Elodin said, looking me in the eye.

  “THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE IN—” The screaming continued in an unbroken chant, like the endless, mindless barking of a dog at night. “—ME! THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE—”

  Elodin closed the door. Though I could still hear the screaming faintly through the thick door, the near-silence was stunning. “Do you know why they call this place the Rookery?” Elodin asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Because it’s where you go if you’re a-ravin’.” He smiled a wild smile. He laughed a terrible laugh.

  Elodin led me through a long series of hallways to a different wing of the Crockery. Finally we turned a corner and I saw something new: a door made entirely of copper.

  Elodin took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. “I like to stop in when I’m back in the neighborhood,” he said casually as he opened the door. “Check my mail. Water the plants and such.”

  He pulled off one of his socks, tied a knot in it, and used it to wedge the door open. “It’s a nice place to visit, but, you know …” He tugged on the door, making sure it wouldn’t swing closed. “Not again.”

  The first thing I noticed about the room was something strange about the air. At first I thought it might be soundproofed like Alder Whin’s, but looking around I saw the walls and ceilings were bare grey stone. Next I thought the air might be stale, except when I drew a breath I smelled lavender and fresh linen. It was almost like there was a pressure on my ears, as if I were deep underwater, except of course that I wasn’t. I waved a hand in front of me, almost expecting the air to feel different, thicker. It didn’t.

  “Pretty irritating, huh?” I turned around to see Elodin watching me. “I’m surprised you noticed, actually. Not many do.”

  The room was a definite step above Alder Whin’s. It had a four-post bed with curtains, an overstuffed couch, an empty bookcase, and a large table with several chairs. Most notable were the huge windows looking out over the lawns and gardens. I could see a balcony outside, but there didn’t seem to be any way to get to it.

  “Watch this,” Elodin said. He picked up one of the high-backed wooden chairs, lifted it with both hands, spun in a circle, and flung it hard at the window. I cringed, but instead of a terrible crash, there was just a dull splintering of wood. The chair fell to the floor in a ruined tangle of timber and upholstery.

  “I used to do that for hours,” Elodin said, drawing a deep breath and looking around the room fondly. “Good times.”

  I went to look at the windows. They were thicker than usual, but not that thick. They seemed normal except for faint reddish streaks running through them. I glanced at the window frame. It was copper too. I looked slowly around at the room, eyeing its bare stone walls, feeling its strangely heavy air. I noticed the door didn’t even have a handle on the inside, let alone a lock. Why would anyone go through all the trouble of making a solid copper door?

  I decided on my second question. “How did you get out?”

  “Finally,” Elodin said with a tinge of exasperation.

  He slouched onto the couch. “You see, once upon a time Elodin the Great found himself locked in a high tower.” He gestured to the room around us. “He had been stripped of his tools: his coin, key, and candle. Furthermore, his cell had no door worth mentioning. No window that could be breached.” He made dismissive gestures at each of these. “Even the name of the wind was hidden from him by the clever machinations of his captors.”

  Elodin got up from the couch and began to pace the room. “All around him was nothing but smooth hard stone. It was a cell no man had ever escaped.”

  He stopped pacing and held up a finger dramatically. “But Elodin the Great knew the names of all things, and so all things were his to command.” He faced the grey wall beside the windows. “He said to the stone: ‘BREAK’ and the …”

  Elodin trailed off, his head tilting to one side curiously. His eyes narrowed. “Sod me, they changed it,” he said quietly to himself. “Huh.” He stepped closer to the wall and lay a hand on it.

  I let my attention wander. Wil and Sim had been right, the man was cracked in the head. What would happen if I ran out of the room, unstuck the door, and slammed it? Would the other masters thank me?

  “Oh,” Elodin said suddenly, laughing. “That was half-clever of them.” He took two steps back from the wall. “CYAERBAS ALIEN.”

  I saw the wall move. It rippled like a hanging rug thumped with a stick. Then it simply … fell. Like dark water poured from a bucket, tons of fine grey sand spilled across the floor in a sudden rush, burying Elodin’s feet up to his shins.

  Sunlight and birdsong poured into the room. Where there had been a foot of solid grey stone before, there was now a gaping hole big enough to drive a cart through.

  But the hole wasn’t completely clear, some green material was spread across the opening. It almost looked like a dirty, tangled net, but it was too irregular for netting. It was more like a thick, tattered cobweb.

  “That wasn’t there before,” Elodin said apologetically as he pulled his feet free of the grey sand. “It was much more dramatic the first time, let me assure you.”

  I simply stood, stunned by what I’d just seen. This wasn’t sympathy. This wasn’t anything I’d ever seen before. All I could think of was the old line from a hundred half-remembered stories: And Taborlin the Great said to the stone: “BREAK!” and the stone broke… .

  Elodin wrenched off one of the chair’s legs and used it to batter at the tangled green web that stretched across the opening. Parts of it broke easily or flaked away. Where it was thicker he used the leg as a lever to bend pieces aside. Where it bent or broke it glimmered bright in the sunlight. More copper, I thought. Veins of copper running through the blocks of stone that made the wall.

  Elodin dropped the chair leg and ducked through the gap. Through the window I saw him lean against the white stone railing on the balcony.

  I followed him outside. As soon as I stepped onto the balcony, the air no longer felt strangely heavy and still.

  “Two years,” he said, looking out over the gardens. “Able to see this balcony but not stand on it. Able to see the wind, but not hear it, not feel it on my face.” He swung one leg up over the stone railing so he was sitting on it, then dropped a few feet to land on the flat piece of roof just underneath. He wandered out across the roof, away from the building.

  I hopped the rail myself and followed him to the edge of the roof. We were only about twenty feet up, but the gardens and fountains spreading out on all sides made for a spectacular view. Elodin stood perilously near the edge, his master’s robe flapping around him like a dark flag. He looked rather impressive, actually, if you were willing to ignore the fact that he was still only wearing one sock.

  I went to stand beside him on the edge of the roof. I knew what my third question had to be. “What do I have to do,” I asked, “to study naming under you?”

  He met my eye calmly, appraising me. “Jump,” he said. “Jump off this roof.”

  That’s when I realized that all of this had been a test. Elodin had been taking my measure ever since we met. He had a grudging respect for my tenacity, and he had been surprised that I noticed something o
dd about the air in his room. He was on the verge of accepting me as a student.

  But he needed more, proof of my dedication. A demonstration. A leap of faith.

  And as I stood there, a piece of story came to mind. So Taborlin fell, but he did not despair. For he knew the name of the wind, and so the wind obeyed him. It cradled and caressed him. It bore him to the ground as gently as a puff of thistledown. It set him on his feet softly as a mother’s kiss.

  Elodin knew the name of the wind.

  Still looking him in the eye, I stepped off the edge of the roof.

  Elodin’s expression was marvelous. I have never seen a man so astonished. I spun slightly as I fell, so he stayed in my line of vision. I saw him raise one hand slightly, as if making a belated attempt to grab hold of me.

  I felt weightless, like I was floating.

  Then I struck the ground. Not gently, like a feather settling down. Hard. Like a brick hitting a cobblestone street. I landed on my back with my left arm beneath me. My vision went dark as the back of my head struck the ground and all the air was driven from my body.

  I didn’t lose consciousness. I just lay there, breathless and unable to move. I remember thinking, quite earnestly, that I was dead. That I was blind.

  Eventually my sight returned, leaving me blinking against the sudden brightness of the blue sky. Pain tore through my shoulder and I tasted blood. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to roll off my arm, but my body wouldn’t listen to me. I had broken my neck … my back …

  After a long, terrifying moment, I managed to gasp a shallow breath, then another. I gave a sigh of relief and realized that I had at least one broken rib in addition to everything else, but I moved my fingers slightly, then my toes. They worked. I hadn’t broken my spine.

  As I lay there, counting my blessings and broken ribs, Elodin stepped into my field of vision.

  He looked down at me. “Congratulations,” he said. “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.” His expression was a mix of awe and disbelief. “Ever.”

  And that is when I decided to pursue the noble art of artificing. Not that I had a lot of other options. Before helping me limp to the Medica, Elodin made it clear that anyone stupid enough to jump off a roof was too reckless to be allowed to hold a spoon in his presence, let alone study something as “profound and volatile” as naming.

  Nevertheless, I wasn’t terribly put out by Elodin’s refusal. Storybook magic or no, I was not eager to study under a man whose first set of lessons had left me with three broken ribs, a mild concussion, and a dislocated shoulder.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Barbs

  Aside from its rocky start, my first term went fairly smoothly. I studied in the Medica, learning more about the body and how to heal it. I practiced my Siaru with Wilem and helped him with his Aturan in exchange.

  I joined the ranks of the Artificery, studying how to blow glass, mix alloys, draw wire, inscribe metal, and sculpt stone.

  Most evenings I came back to Kilvin’s workshop to work. I chipped casings off bronze castings, washed glassware, and ground ore for alloys. It was not demanding work, but every span Kilvin gave me a copper jot, sometimes two. I suspected there was a great tally board in that methodical mind of his, carefully marking down the hours each person worked.

  I learned things of a less academic nature as well. Some of my Arcanum bunkmates taught me a card game called dogsbreath. I returned the favor by giving an impromptu lesson in psychology, probability, and manual dexterity. I won almost two whole talents before they stopped inviting me back to their games.

  I became tight friends with Wilem and Simmon. I had some few others, but not many, and none so close as Wil and Sim. My swift rise to E’lir alienated me from most of the other students. Whether they resented or admired me, most students held themselves apart.

  And there was Ambrose. To deem us simply enemies is to lose the true flavor of our relationship. It was more like the two of us entered into a business partnership in order to more efficiently pursue our mutual interest of hating each other.

  However, even with my vendetta against Ambrose, I still had a great deal of time on my hands. Since I wasn’t able to spend it in the Archives, I spent some time nurturing my budding reputation.

  You see, my dramatic entrance to the University had made quite a stir. I’d made my way into the Arcanum in three days instead of the usual three terms. I was the youngest member by almost two years. I had openly defied one of the masters in front of his own class and avoided expulsion. When whipped, I hadn’t cried out or bled.

  On top of everything else, I had apparently managed to infuriate Master Elodin to such an extent that he had thrown me off the roof of the Crockery. I let that story circulate uncorrected, as it was preferable to the embarrassing truth.

  All together, it was enough to start a steady stream of rumor around me, and I decided to take advantage of it. Reputation is like a sort of armor, or a weapon you can brandish if need be. I decided that if I was going to be an arcanist, I might as well be a well-known arcanist.

  So I let slip a few pieces of information: I had been admitted without a letter of recommendation. The masters had given me three talents to attend, rather than make me pay a tuition. I had survived for years on the streets of Tarbean, living off my wits.

  I even started a few rumors that were pure nonsense, lies so outrageous that people would repeat them despite the fact that they were obviously untrue. I had demon blood in me. I could see in the dark. I only slept an hour each night. When the moon was full I would talk in my sleep, speaking a strange language no one could understand.

  Basil, my former bunkmate from Mews, helped me start these rumors. I would make up the stories, he would tell a few people, then together we would watch them spread like a fire in a field. It was an amusing hobby.

  But my ongoing feud with Ambrose added to my reputation more than anything else. Everyone was stunned that I dared openly defy a powerful noble’s firstborn son.

  We had several dramatic encounters that first term. I won’t bore you with the details. We’d cross paths and he would make some offhand comment loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Or he would sneer at me under the guise of a compliment. “You must tell me who cuts your hair …”

  Anyone with a lick of common sense knew how to deal with arrogant nobility. The tailor I had terrorized back in Tarbean knew what to do. You take your lumps, duck your head, and get the whole thing over as quickly as possible.

  But I always fought back, and while Ambrose was intelligent and reasonably well-spoken, he was no match for my trouper’s tongue. I had been raised on the stage, and my sharp Ruh wits ensured that I got the better of our exchanges.

  Still Ambrose continued to seek me out, like a dog too stupid to avoid a porcupine. He would snap at me and leave with a face full of barbs. And each time we parted ways we hated each other just a little more.

  People noticed, and by the end of the term I had a reputation for reckless bravery. But the truth is, I was merely fearless.

  There’s a difference, you see. In Tarbean I’d learned real fear. I feared hunger, pneumonia, guards with hobnail boots, older boys with bottleglass knives. Confronting Ambrose required no real bravery on my part. I simply couldn’t muster any fear of him. I saw him as a puffed-up clown. I thought he was harmless.

  I was a fool.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Interlude—A Silence of a Different Kind

  Bast sat in the Waystone Inn and tried to keep his hands motionless in his lap. He had counted fifteen breaths since Kvothe had spoken last, and the innocent silence that had gathered like a clear pool around the three men was beginning to darken into a silence of a different kind. Bast took another breath—sixteen—and braced himself against the moment he feared would come.

  It would not be to Bast’s credit to say that he was afraid of nothing, as only fools and priests are never afraid. But it is true that very few things unnerved him. Heights, for inst
ance, he didn’t care for very much. And the great summer storms that came through these parts that blackened the sky and tore up deep-rooted oaks made him feel uncomfortably small and helpless.

  But when you came down to it, nothing really frightened him, not storms, not tall ladders, not even the scrael. Bast was brave by being largely fearless. Nothing would turn him pale, or if it did, he didn’t stay pale for very long.

  Oh, certainly he didn’t relish the thought of someone hurting him. Stabbing him with bitter iron, searing him with hot coals, that sort of thing. But just because he didn’t like the thought of his blood on the outside didn’t mean he was really afraid of those things. He just didn’t want them to happen. To really fear something you have to dwell on it. And since there was nothing that preyed on Bast’s waking mind in this fashion, there was nothing his heart truly feared.

  But hearts can change. Ten years ago he had lost his grip climbing a tall rennel tree to pick fruit for a girl he fancied. After he slipped, he had hung for a long minute, head down, before falling. In that long minute, a small fear rooted inside him, and had stayed with him ever since.

  In the same way, Bast had learned a new fear of late. A year ago he had been fearless as any sane man can hope to be, but now Bast feared silence. Not the ordinary silence that came from a simple absence of things moving about and making noise. Bast feared the deep, weary silence that gathered around his master at times, like an invisible shroud.

  Bast breathed in again—seventeen. He fought not to wring his hands as he waited for the deep silence to invade the room. He waited for it to crystallize and show its teeth on the edges of the cool quiet that had pooled in the Waystone. He knew how it came, like the frost that bleeds out of the winter ground, hardening the clear water that an early thaw leaves in wagon ruts.

  But before Bast could draw another breath, Kvothe straightened in his chair and made a motion for Chronicler to lay down his pen. Bast nearly wept as he sensed the silence scatter like a dark bird startled into flight.