Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

Tags: #Mercenary troops, #Magicians, #Magic, #Attempted assassination, #Fairies, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Heroes, #Epic

The Wise Man's Fear (121 page)

It wasn’t a simple stating of a name. It was a declaration. It was a proud flag flying.

I held her eyes for a moment, then sighed and dropped my gaze to my lute. “I’m sorry about the song. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“it was more lovely than the setting sun,” she protested, sounding close to tears. “but....
nice?
” The word seemed bitter to her.

I set my lute back into its case. “I’m sorry, I can’t fix it without some basis for comparison....” I sighed. “Pity, it was a good song. They would have sung it for a thousand years.” My voice was thick with regret.

Felurian’s expression brightened as if with an idea, then her eyes narrowed into slits. She looked at me as if she was trying to read something written on the inside of my skull.

She knew. She knew I was holding the unfinished song as ransom. The unspoken messages were clear: Unless I leave I can never finish the song. Unless I leave no one will ever hear these beautiful words I have made for you. Unless I leave and taste the fruits mortal women have to offer, I’ll never know how skilled you truly are.

There, amid the cushions, under the eternal twilight sky, Felurian and I stared at each other. She held a butterfly, and my hand rested on the smooth wood of my lute. Two armored knights eyeing each other across a bloody field could not have matched the intensity of our stare.

Felurian spoke slowly, gauging my response. “if you go, will you finish it?” I tried to look surprised, but I wasn’t fooling her. I nodded. “will you come back to me and sing it?”

My surprise became genuine. I hadn’t considered her asking for that. I knew there would be no leaving the second time. I hesitated, but only for a barest moment. Half a loaf is better than none. I nodded.

“promise?” I nodded again. “promise with kisses?” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, like a flower basking in the sun.

Life is too short to refuse offers like that. I moved toward her, drew her naked body toward my own, and kissed her as well as my limited practice would allow. It seemed to be good enough.

As I pulled away she looked up at me and sighed. “your kisses are like snowflakes on my lips.” She lay back on the cushions, head resting on her arm. Her free hand brushed my cheek.

To say she was lovely is such an understatement I cannot begin to repair it. I realized that over the last several minutes she hadn’t been trying to make me desire her, at least not in any supernatural sense.

She brushed her lips lightly over the palm of my hand and released it. Then she lay still, watching me intently.

I was flattered. To this day I know of only one answer to a question so politely phrased. I bent to kiss her. And laughing, she took me in her arms.

CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

Magic of a Different Kind

B
Y THIS POINT IN my life, I’d earned myself a modest reputation.

No, that’s not entirely true. It’s better to say that I had
built
myself a reputation. I’d crafted it deliberately. I’d cultivated it.

Three-quarters of the stories folk told about me at the University were ridiculous rumors I’d started myself. I spoke eight languages. I could see in the dark. When I was three days old, my mother hung me in a basket from a rowan tree by the light of the full moon. That night a faerie laid a powerful charm on me to always keep me safe. It turned my eyes from blue to leafy green.

I knew how stories worked, you see. Nobody believed that I’d traded a cupped handful of my own fresh blood to a demon in exchange for an Alar like a blade of Ramston steel. But still, I
was
the highest ranked duelist in Dal’s class. On a good day, I could beat any two of them together.

That thread of truth wove through the story, gave it strength. So even though you might not believe it, you might tell it to a wide-eyed first term student with a drink in him, just to watch his face, just for fun. And if you’d had a drink or three yourself, you might begin to wonder....

And so the stories spread. And so, around the University at least, my tiny reputation grew.

There were a few true stories as well. Pieces of my reputation I’d honestly earned. I had rescued Fela from a blazing inferno. I had been whipped in front of a crowd and refused to bleed. I’d called the wind and broken Ambrose’s arm....

Still, I knew my reputation was a coat spun out of cobweb. It was storybook nonsense. There were no demons out there, bargaining for blood. There were no helpful faeries granting magic charms. And though I might pretend, I knew I was no Taborlin the Great.

These were my thoughts when I woke, tangled in Felurian’s arms. I lay quietly among the cushions for a time, her head resting lightly on my chest, her leg thrown loosely over mine. Looking up through the trees at the twilight sky, I realized I could not recognize the stars. They were brighter than those in the mortal sky, their patterns unfamiliar.

It was only then that I realized my life had taken a step in a new direction. Up until now, I had been playing at being a young Taborlin. I had spun lies around myself, pretending to be a storybook hero.

But now there was no sense pretending. What I’d done was truly worth a story, every bit as odd and wonderful as any tale of Taborlin himself. I’d followed Felurian into the Fae, then bested her with magics I couldn’t explain, let alone control.

I felt different now. More solid somehow. Not older, exactly. Not wiser. But I knew things that I’d never known before. I knew the Fae were real. I knew their magic was real. Felurian could break a man’s mind with a kiss. Her voice could tug me like a puppet by its strings. There were things I could learn here. Strange things. Powerful things. Secret things. Things I might never ever have a chance to learn again.

I gently freed myself from Felurian’s sleeping embrace and walked down to the nearby pool. I splashed water on my face and scooped up several handfuls to drink.

I looked through the plants that grew at the water’s edge. I picked some leaves and chewed them as I considered how I might approach the subject with Felurian. The mint sweetened my breath.

When I returned to the pavilion, Felurian was standing there, brushing pale fingers through her long dark hair.

I handed her a violet, its color dark as her eyes. She smiled at me and ate it.

I decided to approach the subject gently, lest I offend her. “I was wondering,” I said carefully, “if you would be willing to teach me.”

She reached out to touch the side of my face gently. “foolish sweet,” she said fondly. “have not I already begun?”

I felt excitement rise in my chest, amazed that it could be so simple. “Am I ready for my next lesson?” I asked.

Her smile grew wider and she looked me up and down, her eyes going half-lidded and mysterious. “are you?”

I nodded.

“it is good you are eager,” Felurian said, her fluting voice tinged with amusement. “you have some cleverness and natural skill. but there is much to learn.” She looked into my eyes, her delicate face gravely serious. “when you leave to walk among the mortal, I will not have you shame me.”

Felurian took my hand and drew me into the pavilion. She pointed. “sit.”

I sat on a cushion, placing my head level with the smooth expanse of her stomach. Her navel was terribly distracting.

She looked down at me, her expression proud and regal as a queen.
“amouen,”
she said, spreading the fingers of one hand and making a deliberate gesture. “this we call the hushed hart. an easy lesson to begin, and one I expect you will enjoy.”

Felurian smiled at me then, her eyes old and knowing. And even before she pushed me back against the cushions and began to bite the side of my neck, I realized that she did not intend to teach me magic. Or if she did, it was magic of a different kind.

While it was not the subject I’d hoped to study under her, it’s fair to say that I was not entirely disappointed. Learning lover’s arts from Felurian far outstripped any curriculum offered at the University.

I am not referring to the vigorous sweaty wrestling most men—and alas, most women—think of as love. While sweat and vigor are pleasant parts of it, Felurian brought to my attention the subtler pieces. If I were to go into the world, she said, I would not embarrass her by being an incompetent lover, and so she took care to show me a great many things.

A few of them in her words: The pinioned wrist. The sigh toward the ear. Devouring the neck. Drawing the lips. The kissing of the throat, the navel, and—as Felurian phrased it—the woman’s flower. The breathing kiss. The feather kiss. The climbing kiss. So many different types of kissing. Too many to remember. Almost.

There was drawing water from the well. The fluttering hand. Birdsong at morning. Circling the moon. Playing ivy. The harrowed hare. Just the names would fill a book. But this, I suppose, is not the place for such things. Alas then for the world.

I don’t mean to give the impression that all our hours were spent in dalliance. I was young and Felurian was immortal, but there is only so much two bodies can endure. The rest of the time we amused ourselves in other ways. We swam and ate. I played songs for Felurian, and she danced for me.

I asked Felurian a few careful questions about magic, not wanting to offend her by prying at her secrets. Unfortunately, her answers were not particularly enlightening. Her magic came as naturally as breathing. I might as well have asked a farmer how seeds sprouted. When her answers weren’t hopelessly nonchalant, they were puzzlingly cryptic.

Still, I continued to ask, and she answered as best she could. And occasionally I felt a small spark of understanding.

But most of our time was spent telling stories. We had so little in common that stories were all that we could share.

You might think Felurian and I would be unevenly matched in this regard. She was older than the sky, while I was not yet seventeen.

But Felurian was not the narrative treasure trove you would think. Powerful and clever? Certainly. Energetic and lovely? Absolutely. But storytelling was not among her many gifts.

I, on the other hand, was of the Edema Ruh, and we know all the stories in the world.

So I told her “The Ghost and the Goosegirl.” I told her “Tam and the Tinker’s Spade.” I told her stories of woodcutters and widow’s daughters and the cleverness of orphan boys.

In exchange, Felurian told me manling stories: “The Hand at the Heart of the Pearl,” “The Boy Who Ran Between.” The Fae have their own cast of legendary characters: Mavin the Manshaped, Alavin Allface. Surprisingly, Felurian had never heard of Taborlin the Great or Oren Velciter, but she did know who Illien was. It made me proud that one of the Edema Ruh had gained a place in the stories the Fae tell each other.

I wasn’t blind to the fact that Felurian herself might have the information I was looking for about the Amyr and the Chandrian. How much more enjoyable would it be to learn the truth from her, rather than rooting endlessly through ancient books in dusty rooms?

Unfortunately, Felurian wasn’t the mine of information I’d hoped. She knew stories of the Amyr, but they were thousands of years old.

When I asked her about the more recent Amyr, asking about church knights and the Ciridae with their bloody tattoos, she merely laughed. “there were never any human amyr,” she said, dismissing the idea out of hand. “those you speak of sound like children dressing in their parents’ clothes.”

While I might expect that reaction from others, getting it from Felurian was particularly disheartening. Still, it was nice to know I had been right about the Amyr existing long before they became knights of the Tehlin church.

Then, since the Amyr were a lost cause, I tried to steer her in the direction of the Chandrian.

“no,” she said, looking me squarely in the eye, her back straight. “I will not speak of the seven.” Her soft voice held no lilting whimsy. No playfulness. No room for discussion or negotiation.

For the first time since our initial conflict, I felt a trickle of icy fear sweep over me. She was so slight and lovely, it was so easy to forget what she truly was.

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