The Name of the Wind tkc-1

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Kvothe nodded a hint of an apology. “I just assumed you knew what it was. You didn’t hesitate to attack it.”

  “All snakes bite, Reshi. I don’t need their names to know they’re dangerous. I recognized it as being from the Mael. That was enough.”

  “So, probably a skin dancer?” Kvothe mused. “Didn’t you tell me they’d been gone for ages and ages?”

  Bast nodded. “And it seemed sort of … dumb, and it didn’t try to escape into a new body.” Bast shrugged. “Plus, we’re all still alive. That seems to indicate that it was something else.”

  Chronicler watched the conversation incredulously. “You mean neither of you know what it was?” He looked at Kvothe. “You told the boy it was a demon!”

  “For the boy it’s a demon,” Kvothe said, “because that’s the easiest thing for him to understand, and it’s close enough to the truth.” He began to slowly polish the bar. “For everyone else in town it’s a sweet-eater because that will let them get some sleep tonight.”

  “Well, it’s a demon for me too then,” Chronicler said sharply. “Because my shoulder feels like ice where it touched me.”

  Bast hurried over. “I forgot it got a hand on you. Let me see.”

  Kvothe closed the window’s shutters while Chronicler removed his shirt; there were bandages stripping the backs of his arms from where he had been wounded by the scrael three nights ago.

  Bast looked closely at his shoulder. “Can you move it?”

  Chronicler nodded, rolling it around. “It hurt like twelve bastards when he touched me, like something was tearing up inside.” He shook his head in irritation at his own description. “Now it just feels strange. Numb. Like it’s asleep.”

  Bast prodded his shoulder with a finger, looking it over dubiously.

  Chronicler looked back at Kvothe. “The boy was right about the fire, wasn’t he? Until he mentioned it, I didn’t underaaaaggghhhh!” the scribe shouted, jerking away from Bast. “What in God’s name was that?” he demanded.

  “Your brachial nerve plexus, I’m guessing,” Kvothe said dryly.

  “I needed to see how deep the damage went,” Bast said, unruffled. “Reshi? Would you get me some goose grease, garlic, mustard… . Do we have any of those green things that smell like onions but aren’t?”

  Kvothe nodded. “Keveral? I think there’s a few left.”

  “Bring them, and a bandage too. I should get a salve on this.”

  Kvothe nodded and stepped through the doorway behind the bar. As soon as he was out of sight, Bast leaned close to Chronicler’s ear. “Don’t ask him about it,” he hissed urgently. “Don’t mention it at all.”

  Chronicler looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  “About the bottle. About the sympathy he tried to do.”

  “So he was trying to light that thing on fire? Why didn’t it work? What’s—”

  Bast tightened his grip, his thumb digging into the hollow beneath Chronicler’s collarbone. The scribe gave another startled yelp. “Don’t talk about that,” Bast hissed in his ear. “Don’t ask questions.” Holding both the scribe’s shoulders, Bast shook him once, like an angry parent with a stubborn child.

  “Good lord, Bast. I can hear him howling all the way in the back,” Kvothe called from the kitchen. Bast stood upright and pulled Chronicler straight in his chair as the innkeeper emerged from the doorway. “Tehlu anyway, he’s white as a sheet. Is he going to be okay?”

  “It’s about as serious as a frostburn,” Bast said disparagingly. “It’s not my fault if he screams like a little girl.”

  “Well, be careful with him,” Kvothe said, setting a pot of grease and a handful of garlic cloves on the table. “He’ll need that arm for at least another couple days.”

  Kvothe peeled and crushed the garlic. Bast mixed the salve and smeared the foul-smelling concoction onto the scribe’s shoulder before wrapping a bandage around it. Chronicler sat very still.

  “Do you feel up for a little more writing tonight?” Kvothe asked after the scribe was wearing his shirt again. “We’re still days away from any true ending, but I can tie up a few loose ends before we call it a night.”

  “I’m good for hours yet.” Chronicler hurried to unpack his satchel without so much as a glance in Bast’s direction.

  “Me too.” Bast turned to face Kvothe, his face bright and eager. “I want to know what you found under the University.”

  Kvothe gave a shadow of a smile. “I supposed you would, Bast.” He came to the table and took a seat. “Underneath the University, I found what I had wanted most, yet it was not what I expected.” He motioned for Chronicler to pick up his pen. “As is often the case when you gain your heart’s desire.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  A Pleasant Afternoon

  The next day I was whipped in the wide cobblestone courtyard that used to be called the Quoyan Hayel. The House of the Wind. I found it oddly appropriate.

  As predicted, there was an impressive crowd for the event. Hundreds of students filled the courtyard to overflowing. They peered out of windows and doorways. A few even found their way onto the rooftops for a better view. I don’t blame them, really. Free entertainment is hard to pass by.

  I was lashed six times, singly, across the back. Not wanting to disappoint, I gave them something to talk about. A repeat performance. I did not cry out, or bleed, or faint. I left the courtyard walking on my own two feet with my head held high.

  After Mola laid fifty-seven tidy stitches across my back, I found consolation in a journey to Imre where I spent Ambrose’s money on an extraordinarily fine lute, two nice sets of used clothing for me, a small bottle of my own blood, and a warm new dress for Auri.

  It was, all in all, a very pleasant afternoon.

  CHAPTER NINETY

  Half-Built Houses

  Every night I went exploring underground with Auri. I saw many interesting things, some of which may bear mentioning later, but for now suffice to say that she showed me all the vast and varied corners of the Underthing. She took me to Downings, Vaults, the Woods, Delving, Cricklet, Tenners, Candlebear… .

  The names she gave them, nonsensical at first, fit like a glove when I finally saw what they described. The Woods didn’t resemble a forest in any way. It was just a series of crumbling halls and rooms where ceilings were propped up with thick wooden support beams. Cricklet had a tiny trickle of fresh water running down one wall. The moisture attracted crickets, who filled the long low room with their tiny songs. Vaults was a narrow hallway with three deep cracks running across the floor. I only understood the name after watching Auri jump all three in quick secession to make it to the other end.

  It was several days before Auri took me to Belows, a maze of intersecting tunnels. Despite the fact that we were at least a hundred feet below ground, they were filled with a steady, rushing wind that smelled of dust and leather.

  The wind was the clue I needed. It let me know I was close to finding what I’d come here looking for. Still, it bothered me that I didn’t understand the name of this place, I knew I must be missing something.

  “Why do you call this Belows?” I asked Auri.

  “That’s its name,” she said easily. The wind made her fine hair stream out behind her like a gauzy pennant. “You call things by their names. That’s what names are for.”

  I smiled despite myself. “Why does it have that name? Isn’t everything here ‘below?’ ”

  She turned to look at me, head cocked to one side. Her hair blew around her face and she brushed it back with her hands. “It’s not belows,” she said. “It’s belows.”

  I couldn’t hear the distinction. “Blows?” I asked puffing out my cheeks as if blowing out air.

  Auri laughed, delighted. “That’s a piece.” She grinned. “Try for more.”

  I tried to think of what else made sense. “Bellows?” I made a gesture with both arms as if working a forge bellows.

  Auri thought about that for a moment, looking
up and tilting her head back and forth. “That’s not as good. This is a quiet place.” She reached out a small hand and took hold of the edge of my cloak, pulling it out to the side so the slow wind caught it, filling it like a sail.

  Auri looked up at me, grinning as if she’d just done a magic trick.

  Billows. Of course. I grinned back, laughing.

  That minor mystery put to rest, Auri and I began a meticulous investigation of Billows. After several hours I began to get a feel for the place, an understanding of which way I needed to go. It was just a matter of finding the tunnel that led there.

  It was maddening. The tunnels twisted, leading in wide, unhelpful detours. Those rare times when I found a tunnel that stayed true to its course, the way was blocked. Several passages turned straight up or straight down, leaving me with no way to follow them. One passage had thick iron bars driven deep into the surrounding stone, blocking the way. Another grew steadily narrower until it was barely a handspan across. A third ended with a cave-in of tangled wood and soil.

  After days of searching, we finally found an ancient moldering door. The damp wood crumbled to pieces when I tried to open it.

  Auri wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I’ll skin my knees.”

  Shining my sympathy lamp past the ruined door, I saw what she meant. The room beyond slanted down until the ceiling was only three feet high.

  “Will you wait for me?” I asked her as I took off my cloak and cuffed up my shirtsleeves. “I don’t know if I can find my way up to the top without you.”

  Auri nodded, looking worried. “Ins are easier than outs, you know. There’s tight places. You can get stuck.”

  I was trying not to think of that. “I’m just going for a look. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  She cocked her head. “What if you’re not?”

  I smiled. “You’ll have to come and rescue me.”

  She nodded, her face as solemn as an earnest child.

  I put my sympathy lamp in my mouth, shining the red light out against the pitch blackness in front of me. Then I got down on all fours and headed forward, my knees rubbing against the rough stone of the floor.

  After several turnings, the ceiling went lower still, too low for crawling. After a long moment of consideration, I dropped to my belly and pressed on, pushing my lamp ahead of me. Each twist of my body pulled at the rows of stitches all across my back.

  If you have never been deep underground, I doubt you can understand what it is like. The darkness is absolute, almost tangible. It lurks outside the light, waiting to rush in like a sudden flood. The air is still and stale. There’s no noise except what you make yourself. Your breathing becomes loud in your own ears. Your heart thumps. And all the while there is the overwhelming knowledge that thousands of tons of earth and stone are pressing down above you.

  Still I continued to worm my way ahead, moving by inches. My hands were grimy, and sweat dripped into my eyes. The crawlway grew smaller yet, and I foolishly let one of my arms get pinned to my side. Cold sweat burst out across my whole body as I panicked. I struggled, trying to get it stretched out in front of me… .

  After several terrifying minutes I managed to get my arm free. Then, after lying there for a moment, trembling in the dark, I pressed ahead.

  And found what I’d been looking for… .

  After emerging from the Underthing, I made my careful way through a window and a locked door into the women’s wing of the Mews. I knocked softly on Fela’s door, not wanting to wake anyone accidentally. Men were not allowed unescorted in the women’s wing of the Mews, especially not during the late hours of night.

  I knocked three times before I heard a gentle stirring in her room. After a moment, Fela opened the door, her long hair in wild disarray. Her eyes were still half-closed as she peered into the hallway with a puzzled expression. She blinked when she saw me standing there, as if she hadn’t really expected anyone.

  She was unmistakably naked, with a bedsheet half-wrapped around herself. I will admit that the sight of gorgeous, full-breasted Fela half-naked in front of me was one of the most startlingly erotic moments in my young life.

  “Kvothe?” she said, maintaining a remarkable degree of composure. She tried to cover herself more fully and met with mixed success, pulling the sheet up to her neck in exchange for exposing a scandalous amount of long, shapely leg. “What time is it? How did you get in here?”

  “You said that if I ever needed anything, I could call on you for a favor,” I said urgently. “Did you mean it?”

  “Well, yes. Of course,” she said. “God, you’re a mess. What happened to you?”

  I looked down at myself, only then realizing the state I was in. I was grimy, the front of my body streaked with dirt from sliding across the floor. I’d torn open my pants across one knee, and it looked like I was bleeding underneath. I’d been so excited that I hadn’t even noticed or thought to change into my new clothes before I came.

  Fela took a half step back and swung the door wider, making room for me to enter. As it opened, the door made a tiny wind that pressed the sheet against her body, outlining her nudity in perfect profile for a moment. “Do you need to come in?”

  “I can’t stay,” I said without thinking, struggling against the urge to gawk openly. “I need you to meet a friend of mine in the Archives tomorrow evening. Fifth bell, by the four-plate door. Can you do that?”

  “I have class,” she said. “But if it’s important, I can skip it.”

  “Thank you,” I said quietly as I backed away.

  It says a great deal about what I had found in the tunnels underneath the University that I was halfway back to my room at Anker’s before I realized I had turned down an invitation from a near-naked Fela to join her in her room.

  The next day Fela skipped her lecture on Advanced Geometries and made her way to the Archives. She climbed down several flights of stairs and through a maze of corridors and shelves to find the only section of stone wall in the entire building that wasn’t lined with books. The four-plate door stood there, silent and immobile as a mountain: Valaritas.

  Fela looked around nervously, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

  After a long moment, a hooded figure stepped out of the dark and into the ruddy light of her hand lamp.

  She smiled anxiously. “Hello,” she said softly. “A friend asked me to …” she paused and ducked her head a little, trying to glimpse the face under the shadow of the hood.

  You probably wouldn’t be surprised at who she saw.

  “Kvothe?” she said incredulously, looking around in sudden panic. “My God, what are you doing in here?”

  “Trespassing,” I said flippantly.

  She grabbed hold of me and pulled me through a maze of shelves until we came to one of the reading holes scattered throughout the Archives. She pushed me in and closed the door firmly behind us and leaned against it. “How did you get in here? Lorren will burst a vessel! Do you want to get us both expelled?”

  “They wouldn’t expel you,” I said easily. “You’re guilty of Willful Collusion at the very most. They can’t expel you for that. You’d probably get off with a fine, since they don’t whip women.” I shifted my shoulders a little, feeling the dull tug of the stitches across my back. “Which seems a little unfair if you ask me.”

  “How did you get in here?” she repeated. “Did you sneak past the desk?”

  “You’re better off not knowing,” I hedged.

  It had been Billows, of course. Once I smelled old leather and dust on the wind there I knew I was close. Hidden away in the maze of tunnels was a door that lead directly into the lowest level of the stacks. It was there so the scrivs would have easy access to the ventilation system. The door had been locked, of course, but locked doors have never proved much of a hindrance to me. More’s the pity.

  I didn’t tell Fela any of that, however. I knew my secret route would only work as long as it remained secret. Telling a scriv, even a scriv who owed me
a favor, simply wasn’t a good idea.

  “Listen,” I said quickly. “It’s safe as houses. I’ve been here for hours and no one’s come even close to me. Everyone carries their own light so it’s easy to avoid them.”

  “You just surprised me,” Fela said, as she brushed her dark hair back over her shoulders. “You’re right though, it’s probably safer out there.” She opened the door and peered outside, making sure the coast was clear. “Scrivs spot-check the reading holes periodically to make sure no one’s sleeping in here, or having sex.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about the Archives.” She smiled as she opened the door the rest of the way.

  “That’s why I need your help,” I said as we headed out into the stacks. “I can’t make heads or tails of this place.”

  “What are you looking for?” Fela asked.

  “About a thousand things,” I said honestly. “But we can start with the history of the Amyr. Or any nonfictional reports of the Chandrian. Anything about either one really. I haven’t been able to find a thing.”

  I didn’t bother trying to keep the frustration from my voice. To finally get inside the Archives after all this time and not be able to find any of the answers I was looking for was maddening. “I thought things would be better organized,” I groused.

  Fela chuckled deep in her throat. “And how would you do that, exactly? Organize everything, I mean.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it for the last couple hours, actually,” I said. “It’d be best to do it by subject. You know: histories, memoirs, grammars… .”

  Fela stopped walking and gave a deep sigh. “I guess we should get this over with.” She pulled a slim book off a shelf at random. “What’s the subject of this book?”

  I opened it and glanced over the pages. It was written in an old scribe’s hand, spidery and hard to follow. “It looks like a memoir.”

  “What type of memoir? Where do you put it in relationship to the other memoirs?”

  Still flipping pages, I spotted a carefully drawn map. “Actually, it looks more like a travelogue.”