The Name of the Wind tkc-1

by Patrick Rothfuss

I murmured an excuse and took my leave, too distraught to worry whether or not I had made an ass of myself.

  As I made my desolate way back to the stairs, my wise self took the opportunity to berate me. That is what comes of hope, it said. No good. Still, you are better having missed her. She could never have been equal to her voice. That voice, fair and terrible as burning silver, like moonlight on river stones, like a feather against your lips.

  I headed to the stairs, eyes on the floor lest anyone try to catch me in a conversation.

  Then I heard a voice, a voice like burning silver, like a kiss against my ears. Looking up, my heart lifted and I knew it was my Aloine. Looking up, I saw her and all I could think was, beautiful.

  Beautiful.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Interlude—The Parts that Form Us

  Moving slowly, Bast stretched and looked around the room. Finally the short fuse of his patience burned out. “Reshi?”

  “Hmmm?” Kvothe looked at him.

  “And then what, Reshi? Did you talk to her?”

  “Of course I talked to her. There would be no story if I hadn’t. Telling that part is easy. But first I must describe her. I’m not sure how to do it.”

  Bast fidgeted.

  Kvothe laughed, a fond expression wiping the irritation from his face. “So is describing a beautiful woman as easy as looking at one for you?”

  Bast looked down and blushed, and Kvothe laid a gentle hand on his arm, smiling. “My trouble, Bast, is that she is very important. Important to the story. I cannot think of how to describe her without falling short of the mark.”

  “I … I think I understand, Reshi,” Bast said in conciliatory tones. “I’ve seen her too. Once.”

  Kvothe sat back in his chair, surprised. “You have, haven’t you? I’d forgotten.” He pressed his hands to his lips. “How would you describe her then?”

  Bast brightened at the opportunity. Straightening up in his chair he looked thoughtful for a moment then said. “She had perfect ears.” He made a delicate gesture with his hands. “Perfect little ears, like they were carved out of … something.”

  Chronicler laughed, then looked slightly taken aback, as if he’d surprised himself. “Her ears?” he asked as if he couldn’t be sure if he had heard correctly.

  “You know how hard it is to find a pretty girl with the right sort of ears,” Bast said matter-of-factly.

  Chronicler laughed again, seeming to find it easier the second time. “No,” he said. “No, I’m sure I don’t.”

  Bast gave the story collector a deeply pitying look. “Well then, you’ll just have to take my word for it. They were exceptionally fine.”

  “I think you’ve struck that chord well enough, Bast,” Kvothe said, amused. He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again it was slowly, his eyes far away. “The trouble is, she is unlike anyone I have ever known. There was something intangible about her. Something compelling, like heat from a fire. She had a grace, a spark—”

  “She had a crooked nose, Reshi,” Bast said, interrupting his master’s reverie.

  Kvothe looked at him, a line of irritation creasing his forehead. “What?”

  Bast held his hands up defensively. “It’s just something I noticed, Reshi. All the women in your story are beautiful. I can’t gainsay you as a whole, as I’ve never seen any of them. But this one I did see. Her nose was a little crooked. And if we’re being honest here, her face was a little narrow for my taste. She wasn’t a perfect beauty by any means, Reshi. I should know. I’ve made some study of these things.”

  Kvothe stared at his student for a long moment, his expression solemn. “We are more than the parts that form us, Bast,” he said with a hint of reproach.

  “I’m not saying she wasn’t lovely, Reshi,” Bast said quickly. “She smiled at me. It was … it had a sort of … it went right down into you, if you understand me.”

  “I understand, Bast. But then again, I’ve met her.” Kvothe looked at Chronicler. “The trouble comes from comparison, you see. If I say ‘she was dark haired,’ you might think, ‘I’ve known dark-haired women, some of them lovely.’ But you would be far off the mark, because that woman would not really have anything in common with her. That other woman wouldn’t have her quick wit, her easy charm. She was unlike anyone I have ever met… .”

  Kvothe trailed off, looking down at folded hands. He was quiet for such a long moment that Bast began to fidget, looking around anxiously.

  “There’s no sense worrying, I suppose,” Kvothe said at last, looking up and motioning to Chronicler. “If I ruin this as well, it will be a small thing as far as the world is concerned.”

  Chronicler picked up his pen, and Kvothe began to speak before he had the chance to dip it. “Her eyes were dark. Dark as chocolate, dark as coffee, dark as the polished wood of my father’s lute. They were set in a fair face, oval. Like a teardrop.”

  Kvothe stopped suddenly, as if he had run himself out of words. The silence was so sudden and deep that Chronicler glanced briefly up from his page, something he had not done before. But even as Chronicler looked up, another flood of words burst out of Kvothe.

  “Her easy smile could stop a man’s heart. Her lips were red. Not the garish painted red so many women believe makes them desirable. Her lips were always red, morning and night. As if minutes before you saw her, she had been eating sweet berries, or drinking heart’s blood.

  “No matter where she stood, she was in the center of the room.” Kvothe frowned. “Do not misunderstand. She was not loud, or vain. We stare at a fire because it flickers, because it glows. The light is what catches our eyes, but what makes a man lean close to a fire has nothing to do with its bright shape. What draws you to a fire is the warmth you feel when you come near. The same was true of Denna.”

  As Kvothe spoke, his expression twisted, as if each word he spoke rankled him more and more. And while the words were clear, they matched his expression, as if each one was rasped with a rough file before it left his mouth.

  “She …” Kvothe’s head was bowed so low he seemed to be speaking to his hands laying in his lap. “What am I doing?” He said faintly, as if his mouth was full of grey ash. “What good can come of this? How can I make any sense of her for you when I have never understood the least piece of her myself?”

  Chronicler had written most of this out before he realized that Kvothe had probably not intended him to. He froze for a bare moment, then finished scratching down the rest of the sentence. Then he waited a long, quiet moment, before he stole a look upward at Kvothe.

  Kvothe’s eyes caught and held him. They were the same dark eyes that Chronicler had seen before. Eyes like an angry God’s. For a moment it was all Chronicler could do to not draw back from the table. There was an icy silence.

  Kvothe stood and pointed at the paper that lay in front of Chronicler. “Cross that out,” he grated.

  Chronicler blanched, his expression as stricken as if he’d been stabbed.

  When he made no move, Kvothe reached down and calmly slid the half-written sheet from under Chronicler’s pen. “If crossing out is something you feel disinclined toward …” Kvothe tore the half-written sheet with slow care, the sound bleeding the color from Chronicler’s face.

  With terrible deliberateness Kvothe lifted a blank sheet and lay it carefully in front of the stunned scribe. One long finger stabbed at the torn sheet, smearing the still-wet ink. “Copy to here,” he said in a voice that was cold and motionless as iron. The iron was in his eyes too, hard and dark.

  There was no arguing. Chronicler quietly copied to where Kvothe’s finger pinned the paper to the table.

  Once Chronicler was finished, Kvothe began to speak crisply and clearly, as if he were biting off pieces of ice. “In what manner was she beautiful? I realize that I cannot say enough. So. Since I cannot say enough, at least I will avoid saying too much.

  “Say this, that she was dark haired. There. It was long and straight. She was dark of eye and fair compl
ected. There. Her face was oval, her jaw strong and delicate. Say that she was poised and graceful. There.”

  Kvothe took a breath before continuing. “Finally, say that she was beautiful. That is all that can be well said. That she was beautiful, through to her bones, despite any flaw or fault. She was beautiful, to Kvothe at least. At least? To Kvothe she was most beautiful.” For a moment Kvothe tensed as if he would leap up and tear this sheet away from Chronicler as well.

  Then he relaxed, like a sail when the wind leaves it. “But to be honest, it must be said that she was beautiful to others as well… .”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Names for Beginning

  It would be nice to say that our eyes met and I moved smoothly to her side. It would be nice to say that I smiled and spoke of pleasant things in carefully metered rhyming couplets, like Prince Gallant from some faerie story.

  Unfortunately, life is seldom so carefully scripted. In truth, I simply stood. It was Denna, the young woman I had met in Roent’s caravan so long ago.

  Come to think of it, it had only been half a year. Not so long when you’re listening to a story, but half a year is a great long while to live through, especially if you are young. And we were both of us very young.

  I caught sight of Denna as she was climbing the final step onto the third level of the Eolian. Her eyes were downcast, her expression thoughtful, almost sad. She turned and began to walk in my direction without lifting her eyes from the floor, without seeing me.

  The months had changed her. Where before she had been pretty, now she was lovely as well. Perhaps that difference was only that she wasn’t wearing the road clothes I had met her in, but a long dress instead. But it was Denna without a doubt. I even recognized the ring on her finger, silver set with a pale blue stone.

  Since we parted ways, I had kept foolish, fond thoughts of Denna hidden in a secret corner of my heart. I had thought of making the trip to Anilin and tracking her down, of meeting her by chance on the road again, of her coming to find me at the University. But deep down I knew these thoughts for nothing more than childish daydreams. I knew the truth: I would never see her again.

  But here she was, and I was entirely unprepared. Would she even remember me, the awkward boy she had known for a few days so long ago?

  Denna was barely a dozen feet away when she looked up and saw me. Her expression brightened, as if someone had lit a candle inside her and she was glowing from its light. She rushed toward me, closing the distance between us in three excited, skipping steps.

  For a moment, she looked as if she would run straight into my arms, but at the last moment she pulled back, darting a glance at the people sitting around us. In the space of half a step, she transformed her delighted headlong run into a demure greeting at arm’s length. It was gracefully done, but even so, she had to reach out a hand and steady herself against my chest, lest she stumble into me due to her sudden stop.

  She smiled at me then. It was warm and sweet and shy, like a flower unfurling. It was friendly and honest and slightly embarrassed. When she smiled at me, I felt …

  I honestly cannot think of how I could describe it. Lying would be easier. I could steal from a hundred stories and tell you a lie so familiar you would swallow it whole. I could say my knees went to rubber. That my breath came hard in my chest. But that would not be the truth. My heart did not pound or stop or stutter. That is the sort of thing they say happens in stories. Foolishness. Hyperbole. Tripe. But still …

  Go out in the early days of winter, after the first cold snap of the season. Find a pool of water with a sheet of ice across the top, still fresh and new and clear as glass. Near the shore the ice will hold you. Slide out farther. Farther. Eventually you’ll find the place where the surface just barely bears your weight. There you will feel what I felt. The ice splinters under your feet. Look down and you can see the white cracks darting through the ice like mad, elaborate spiderwebs. It is perfectly silent, but you can feel the sudden sharp vibrations through the bottoms of your feet.

  That is what happened when Denna smiled at me. I don’t mean to imply I felt as if I stood on brittle ice about to give way beneath me. No. I felt like the ice itself, suddenly shattered, with cracks spiraling out from where she had touched my chest. The only reason I held together was because my thousand pieces were all leaning together. If I moved, I feared I would fall apart.

  Perhaps it is enough to say that I was caught by a smile. And though that sounds as if it came from a storybook, it is very near the truth.

  Words have never been difficult for me. Quite the opposite in fact—often I find it all too easy to speak my mind, and things go badly because of it. However, here in front of Denna, I was too stunned to speak. I could not have said a sensible word to save my life.

  Without thinking, all the courtly manners my mother had drilled into me came to the fore. I reached out smoothly and clasped Denna’s outstretched hand in my own, as if she’d offered it to me. Then I took a half step backward and made a genteel three-quarter bow. At the same time my free hand caught hold of the edge of my cloak and tucked it behind my back. It was a flattering bow, courtly without being ridiculously formal, and safe for a public setting such as this.

  What next? A kiss on the hand was traditional, but what sort of kiss was appropriate? In Atur you merely nod over the hand. Cealdish ladies like the moneylender’s daughter I had chatted with earlier expected you to brush the knuckles lightly and make a kissing sound. In Modeg you actually press your lips to the back of your own thumb.

  But we were in Commonwealth, and Denna showed no foreign accent. A straightforward kiss then. I pressed my lips gently to the back of her hand for the space of time it takes to draw a quick breath. Her skin was warm and smelled vaguely of heather.

  “I am at your service, my lady,” I said, standing and releasing her hand. For the first time in my life I understood the true purpose of this sort of formal greeting. It gives you a script to follow when you have absolutely no idea what to say.

  “My lady?” Denna echoed, sounding a little surprised. “Very well, if you insist.” She took hold of her dress with one hand and bobbed a curtsey, somehow managing to make it look graceful and mocking and playful all at once. “Your lady.” Hearing her voice, I knew my suspicions were true. She was my Aloine.

  “What are you doing up here in the third circle alone?” She glanced around the crescent-shaped balcony. “Are you alone?”

  “I was alone,” I said. Then when I could think of nothing else to say, I borrowed a line from the song fresh in my memory. “ ‘Now unexpected Aloine beside me stands.’ ”

  She smiled at that, flattered. “How do you mean, unexpected?” she asked.

  “I had more than half convinced myself that you had already left.”

  “It was a near thing,” Denna said, archly. “Two hours I waited for my Savien to come.” She sighed tragically, glancing up and to one side like a statue of a saint. “Finally, filled with despair, I decided Aloine could do the finding this time, and damn the story.” She smiled a wicked smile.

  “ ‘So we were ill-lit ships at night …’ ” I quoted.

  “… ‘passing close but all unknown to one another,’ ” Denna finished.

  “Felward’s Falling,” I said with something that touched the outward boundary of respect. “Not many people know that play.”

  “I am not many people,” she said.

  “I will never forget that again,” I bowed my head with exaggerated deference. She snorted derisively I ignored it and continued in a more serious tone. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me tonight.”

  “You can’t?” she said. “Well, that’s a shame. How much can you thank me?”

  Without thinking, I reached up to the collar of my cloak and unpinned my talent pipes. “Only this much,” I said, holding them out to her.

  “I …” Denna hesitated, somewhat taken aback. “You can’t be serious …”

  “Without you, I wouldn’t hav
e won them,” I said. “And I have nothing else of any value, unless you want my lute.”

  Denna’s dark eyes studied my face, as if she couldn’t decide if I was making fun or not. “I don’t think you can give away your pipes… .”

  “I can, actually,” I said. “Stanchion mentioned if I lost them or gave them away, I’d have to earn another set.” I took her hand, uncurled her fingers, then laid the silver pipes on her palm. “That means I can do with them as I please, and it pleases me to give them to you.”

  Denna stared at the pipes in her hand, then looked at me with deliberate attention, as if she hadn’t entirely noticed me before. For a moment I was painfully aware of my appearance. My cloak was threadbare, and even wearing my best clothes I was a short step from shabby.

  She looked down again and slowly closed her hand around the pipes. Then she looked up at me, her expression unreadable. “I think you might be a wonderful person,” she said.

  I drew a breath, but Denna spoke first. “However,” she said, “this is too great a thanks. More payment than is appropriate for any help I’ve given you. I would end up in your debt.” She caught hold of my hand and pressed the pipes back into it. “I would rather have you beholden to me.” She grinned suddenly. “This way you still owe me a favor.”

  The room grew noticeably quieter. I looked around, confused due to the fact that I’d forgotten where I was. Denna lay a finger to her lips and pointed over the railing to the stage below. We stepped closer to the edge and looked down to see an old man with a white beard opening an oddly-shaped instrument case. I sucked in a surprised breath when I saw what he was holding.

  “What is that thing?” Denna asked.

  “It’s an old court lute,” I said, unable to keep the amazement out of my voice. “I’ve never actually seen one before.”

  “That’s a lute?” Denna’s lips moved silently. “I count twenty-four strings. How does that even work? That’s more than some harps.”

  “That’s how they made them years ago, before metal strings, before they knew how to brace a long neck. It’s incredible. There’s more careful engineering in that swan neck than in any three cathedrals.” I watched as the old man tucked his beard out of the way and adjusted himself in his seat. “I just hope he tuned it before he went onstage,” I added softly. “Otherwise we’ll be waiting an hour while he fiddles with his pegs. My father used to say the old minstrels used to spend two days stringing and two hours of tuning to get two minute’s music from an old court lute.”