The Name of the Wind

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Turning, the mercenary saw the tall boy charging. He smiled and stretched out a bloody hand. The motion was graceful, almost lazy.

  The smith’s prentice swatted the arm away. When the iron bar struck him, the mercenary’s smile fell away. He clutched at his arm, hissing and spitting like an angry cat.

  The boy swung the iron rod again, striking the mercenary squarely in the ribs. The force of it knocked him away from the bar, and he fell to his hands and knees, screaming like a slaughtered lamb.

  The smith’s prentice grabbed the bar with both hands and brought it down across the mercenary’s back like a man splitting wood. There was the gristly sound of bones cracking. The iron bar rang softly, like a distant, fog-muffled bell.

  Back broken, the bloody man still tried to crawl toward the inn’s door. His face was blank now, his mouth open in a low howl as constant and unthinking as the sound of wind through winter trees. The prentice struck again and again, swinging the heavy iron rod lightly as a willow switch. He scored a deep groove in the wooden floor, then broke a leg, an arm, more ribs. Still the mercenary continued to claw his way toward the door, shrieking and moaning, sounding more animal than human.

  Finally the boy landed a blow to the head and the mercenary went limp. There was a moment of perfect quiet, then the mercenary made a deep, wet, coughing sound and vomited up a foul fluid, thick as pitch and black as ink.

  It was some time before the boy stopped battering at the motionless corpse, and even when he did stop, he held the bar poised over one shoulder, panting raggedly and looking around wildly. As he slowly caught his breath, the sound of low prayers could be heard from the other side of the room where Old Cob crouched against the black stone of the fireplace.

  After a few minutes even the praying stopped, and silence returned to the Waystone Inn.

  For the next several hours the Waystone was the center of the town’s attention. The common room was crowded, full of whispers, murmured questions, and broken sobbing. Folk with less curiosity or more propriety stayed outside, peering through the wide windows and gossiping over what they’d heard.

  There were no stories yet, just a roiling mass of rumor. The dead man was a bandit come to rob the inn. He’d come looking for revenge against Chronicler, who’d deflowered his sister off in Abbott’s Ford. He was a woodsman gone rabid. He was an old acquaintance of the innkeeper, come to collect a debt. He was an ex-soldier, gone tabard-mad while fighting the rebels off in Resavek.

  Jake and Carter made a point of the mercenary’s smile, and while denner addiction was a city problem, folk had still heard of sweet-eaters here. Three-finger Tom knew about these things, as he’d soldiered under the old king nearly thirty years ago. He explained that with four grains of denner resin, a man could have his foot amputated without a twinge of pain. With eight grains he’d saw through the bone himself. With twelve grains he’d go for a jog afterward, laughing and singing “Tinker Tanner.”

  Shep’s body was covered with a blanket and prayed over by the priest. Later, the constable looked at it as well, but the man was clearly out of his depth, and was looking because he felt he should rather than because he knew what to look for.

  The crowd began to thin after an hour or so. Shep’s brothers showed up with a cart to collect the body. Their grim, red-eyed stares drove away most of the remaining spectators who were idling about.

  Still, there was much to be done. The constable tried to piece together what had happened from witnesses and the more opinionated onlookers. After hours of speculation, the story finally began to coalesce. Eventually it was agreed that the man was a deserter and denner addict come to their little town just in time to go crazy.

  It was clear to everyone that the smith’s prentice had done the right thing, a brave thing in fact. Still, the iron law demanded a trial, so there’d be one next month, when the quarter court came through these parts on its rounds.

  The constable went home to his wife and children. The priest took the mercenary’s remains off to the church. Bast cleared the wrecked furniture away, stacking it near the kitchen door to be used as firewood. The innkeeper mopped the inn’s hardwood floor seven times, until the water in the bucket no longer tinged red when he rinsed it out. Eventually even the most dedicated gawkers drifted away, leaving the usual Felling night crowd, minus one.

  Jake, Cob, and the rest made halting conversation, speaking of everything other than what had happened, clinging to the comfort of each other’s company.

  One by one, exhaustion drove them out of the Waystone. Eventually only the smith’s prentice remained, looking down into the cup in his hands. The iron rod lay near his elbow on the top of the mahogany bar.

  Nearly half an hour passed without anyone speaking. Chronicler sat at a nearby table, making a pretense of finishing a bowl of stew. Kvothe and Bast puttered about, trying to look busy. A vague tension built in the room as they snuck glances at each other, waiting for the boy to leave.

  The innkeeper strolled over to the boy, wiping his hands on a clean linen cloth. “Well boy, I guess—”

  “Aaron,” the smith’s prentice interjected, not looking up from his drink. “My name’s Aaron.”

  Kvothe nodded seriously. “Aaron, then. I suppose you deserve that.”

  “I don’t think it was denner,” Aaron said abruptly.

  Kvothe paused. “Beg pardon?”

  “I don’t think that fellow was a sweet-eater.”

  “You with Cob then?” Kvothe asked. “Think he was rabid?”

  “I think he had a demon in him,” the boy said with careful deliberation, as if he’d been thinking about the words for a long time. “I didn’t say anything before ’cause I didn’t want folk to think I’d gone all cracked in the head like Crazy Martin.” He looked up from his drink. “But I still think he had a demon in him.”

  Kvothe put on a gentle smile and gestured to Bast and Chronicler. “Aren’t you worried we’ll think the same?”

  Aaron shook his head seriously. “You aren’t from around here. You’ve been places. You know what sort of things are out in the world.” He gave Kvothe a flat look. “I figure you know it was a demon too.”

  Bast grew still where he stood sweeping near the hearth. Kvothe tilted his head curiously without looking away. “Why would you say that?”

  The smith’s prentice gestured behind the bar. “I know you got a big oak drunk-thumper under the bar there. And, well…” His eyes flickered upward to the sword hanging menacingly behind the bar. “There’s only one reason I can think you’d grab a bottle instead of that. You weren’t trying to knock that fellow’s teeth in. You were gonta light him on fire. ’Cept you didn’t have any matches, and there weren’t any candles closeby.”

  “My ma used to read to me from the Book of the Path,” he continued. “There’s plenty of demons in there. Some hide in men’s bodies, like we’d hide under a sheepskin. I think he was just some regular fella who’d got a demon inside him. That’s why nothing hurt him. It’d be like someone poking holes in your shirt. That’s why he din’t make no sense, either. He was talking demon talk.”

  Aaron’s eyes slid back to the cup he held in his hands, nodding to himself. “The more I think, the better it makes sense. Iron and fire. That’s for demons.”

  “Sweet-eaters are stronger than you’d think,” Bast said from across the room. “Once I saw—”

  “You’re right,” Kvothe said. “It was a demon.”

  Aaron looked up to meet Kvothe’s eye, then nodded and looked down into his mug again. “And you didn’t say anything because you’re new in town, and business is shy enough.”

  Kvothe nodded.

  “And it won’t do me any good to tell folk, will it?”

  Kvothe drew a deep breath, then let it out slow. “Probably not.”

  Aaron drank off the last swallow of his beer and pushed the empty mug away from himself on the bar. “Alright. I just needed to hear it. Needed to know I hadn’t gone all crazy.” He came to his fee
t and picked up the heavy iron rod with one hand resting it on his shoulder as he turned toward the door. No one spoke as he made his way across the room and let himself out, closing the door behind him. His heavy boots sounded hollowly on the wooden landing outside, then there was nothing.

  “There’s more to that one than I would’ve guessed,” Kvothe said at last.

  “It’s because he’s big,” Bast said matter-of-factly as he gave up the pretense of sweeping. “You people are easily confused by the look of things. I’ve had my eye on him for a while now. He’s cleverer than folk give him credit for. Always looking at things and asking questions.” He carried the broom back toward the bar. “He makes me nervous.”

  Kvothe looked amused. “Nervous? You?”

  “The boy reeks of iron. Spends all day handling it, baking it, breathing its smoke. Then comes in here with clever eyes.” Bast gave a profoundly disapproving look. “It’s not natural.”

  “Natural?” Chronicler finally spoke up. There was a tinge of hysteria in his voice. “What do you know about natural? I just saw a demon kill a man, was that natural?” Chronicler turned to face Kvothe. “What the hell was that thing doing here anyway?” Chronicler asked.

  “‘Looking,’ apparently,” Kvothe said. “That’s about all I got. How about you, Bast? Could you understand it?”

  Bast shook his head. “I recognized the sound more than anything, Reshi. Its phrasing was very old, archaic. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”

  “Fine. It was looking,” Chronicler said abruptly. “Looking for what?”

  “Me, probably,” Kvothe said grimly.

  “Reshi,” Bast admonished him, “you’re just being maudlin. This isn’t your fault.”

  Kvothe gave his student a long, weary look. “You know better than that, Bast. All of this is my fault. The scrael, the war. All my fault.”

  Bast looked like he wanted to protest, but couldn’t find the words. After a long moment, he looked away, beaten.

  Kvothe leaned his elbows onto the bar, sighing. “What do you think it was, anyway?”

  Bast shook his head. “It seemed like one of the Mahael-uret, Reshi. A skin dancer.” He frowned as he said it, sounding anything but certain.

  Kvothe raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t one of your kind?”

  Bast’s normally affable expression sharpened into a glare. “It was not ‘my kind,’” he said indignantly. “The Mael doesn’t even share a border with us. It’s as far away as anywhere can be in the Fae.”

  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.”