Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (140 page)

Vashet led the way back to the small cluster of low stone buildings. When I’d first seen them I’d assumed they were the town itself. Now I knew they composed the school. The group of buildings was like a tiny University, except there was none of the scheduled regimen I was used to.

There was no formal ranking system, either. Those with their reds were treated with deference, and Shehyn was obviously in charge. Other than that, all I had was a vague impression of a social pecking order. Tempi was obviously rather low and not well-thought-of. Vashet was rather high and respected.

When we arrived for our meeting, Shehyn was midway through performing the Ketan. I watched silently as she moved at the speed of honey spreading on a tabletop. The Ketan grows more difficult the slower it is done, but she performed it flawlessly.

It took her half an hour to finish, after which she opened a window. A curl of wind brought in the sweet smell of summer grass and the sound of leaves.

Shehyn sat. She wasn’t breathing hard, though a sheen of sweat covered her skin. “Did Tempi tell you of the nine-and-ninety tales?” she asked without preamble. “Of Aethe and the beginning of the Adem?”

I shook my head.

“Good,” Shehyn said. “It is not his place to do such a thing, and he could not do it properly.” She looked at Vashet. “How is language coming?”

“Quickly, as these things go,” she said.
However
.

“Very well,” Shehyn said, switching to precise, slightly accented Aturan. “I will tell it like this, so there will be less interruption, and less room for misunderstanding.”

I did my best to gesture
respectful gratitude
.

“This is a story of years ago,” Shehyn said formally. “Before this school. Before the path of the sword tree. Before any Adem knew of the Lethani. This is a story of the beginning of such things.

“The first Adem school was not a school that taught sword-work. Surprisingly, it was founded by a man named Aethe who sought mastery over the arrow and the bow.”

Shehyn paused in her tale and gave a word of explanation. “You should know that in those days, use of the bow was very common. The skill of it was much prized. We were shepherds, and much set on by our enemies, and the bow was the best tool we had to defend ourselves.”

Shehyn leaned back in her chair and continued. “Aethe did not set out to found a school. There were no schools in those days. He merely sought to improve his skill. All his will he bent upon this, until he could shoot an apple from a tree one hundred feet away. Then he strove until he could shoot the wick of a burning candle. Soon the only target that challenged him was a piece of hanging silk blowing in the wind. Aethe strove until he could anticipate the turning of the wind, and once he had mastered this thing, he could not miss.

“Stories of his talent spread, and others came to him. Among them was a young woman named Rethe. At first Aethe doubted she possessed the strength to draw the bow. But she was soon regarded as his finest student.

“As I have said, this was long years and distant miles from where we sit. In those days, the Adem did not have the Lethani to guide us, and so it was a rough and bloody time. In those days it was not uncommon for one Adem to kill another out of pride, or from an argument, or as a proof of skill.

“Since Aethe was the greatest of archers, many challenged him. But a body is nothing of a target when one can strike silk blowing in the wind. Aethe slew them easily as cutting wheat. He took only a single arrow with him to a duel, and claimed if that single arrow was not enough, he deserved to be struck down.

“Aethe grew older, and his fame spread. He put down roots and began the first of the Adem schools. Years passed, and he trained many Adem to be deadly as knives. It became well known that if you gave Aethe’s students three arrows and three coins, your three worst enemies would never bother you again.

“So the school grew rich and famous and proud. And so did Aethe.

“It was then that Rethe came to him. Rethe, his best student. Rethe who stood nearest his ear and closest to his heart.

“Rethe spoke to Aethe, and they disagreed. Then they argued. Then they shouted loud enough that all the school could hear it through the thick stone walls.

“And at the end of it, Rethe challenged Aethe to a duel. Aethe accepted, and it was known that the winner would control the school from that day forth.

“As the challenged, Aethe chose his place first. He chose to stand among a grove of young and swaying trees that gave him shifting cover. Normally he would not bother with precautions such as this, but Rethe was his finest student, and she could read the wind just as well as he. He took with him his bow of horn. He took with him his sharp and single arrow.

“Then Rethe chose her place to stand. She walked to the top of a high hill, her outline clear against the naked sky. She carried neither bow nor arrow. And when she reached the top of the hill, she sat calmly on the ground. This was perhaps the oddest thing of all, as Aethe was known to sometimes strike a foe through the leg rather than kill them.

“Aethe saw his student do this, and he was filled with anger. Aethe took his single arrow and fitted it to his bow. Aethe drew the string against his ear. The string Rethe had made for him, woven from the long, strong strands of her own hair.”

Shehyn met my eye. “Full of anger, Aethe shot his arrow. It struck Rethe like a thunderbolt. Here.” She pointed with two fingers at the inner curve of her left breast.

“Still seated, arrow sprouting from her chest, Rethe drew a long ribbon of white silk from beneath her shirt. She took a white feather from the arrow’s fletching, dipped it in her blood, and wrote four lines of poetry.

“Then Rethe held the ribbon aloft for a long moment, waiting as the wind pulled first one way, then another. Then Rethe loosed it, the silk twisting through the air, rising and falling on the breeze. The ribbon twisted in the wind, wove its way through the trees, and pressed itself firmly against Aethe’s chest.

“It read:

Aethe, near my heart.
Without vanity, the ribbon.
Without duty, the wind.
Without blood, the victory.

I heard a low noise and looked over to see Vashet weeping quietly to herself. Her head was lowered, and tears ran down her face to drip deeper spots of red onto the front of her shirt.

Shehyn continued. “Only after Aethe read these lines did he recognize the deep wisdom his student possessed. He hurried to tend Rethe’s wounds, but the head of the arrow was lodged too close to her heart to be removed.

“Rethe lived only three days after that, with the grief-stricken Aethe tending her. He gave her control of the school, and listened to her words, all the while the head of the arrow riding close to her heart.

“During those days, Rethe dictated nine-and-ninety stories, and Aethe wrote them down. These tales were the beginning of our understanding of the Lethani. They are the root of all Ademre.

“Late in the third day Rethe finished telling the ninety-ninth story to Aethe, who now held himself to be his student’s student. After Aethe finished writing, Rethe said to him, ‘There is one final story, more important than all the rest, and that one shall be known when I awake.’

“Then Rethe closed her eyes and slept. And sleeping, she died.

“Aethe lived forty years after that, and it is said he never killed again. In the years that followed, he was often heard to say, ‘I won the only duel I ever lost.’

“He continued to run the school and train his students to be masters of the bow. But now he also trained them to be wise. He told them the nine-and-ninety tales, and thus it was the Lethani first came to be known by all Ademre. And that is how we came to be that which we are.”

There was a long pause.

“I thank you, Shehyn,” I said doing my best to gesture
respectful gratitude
.“I would very much like to hear these nine-and-ninety stories.”

“They are not for barbarians,” she said. But she didn’t seem offended at my request, gesturing a combination of
reproach
and
regret
. She changed the subject. “How is your Ketan coming?”

“I struggle to improve, Shehyn.”

She turned to Vashet. “Does he?”

“There is certainly struggle,” Vashet said, her eyes still red with tears.
Wry amusement
. “But there is improvement, too.”

Shehyn nodded.
Reserved approval
. “Several of us will be fighting tomorrow. Perhaps you could bring him to watch.”

Vashet made an elegant motion that made me appreciate how little I knew of the subtleties of hand-language:
Gracious thankful slightly submissive acceptance
.

“You should be flattered,” Vashet said cheerfully. “A conversation with Shehyn and an invitation to watch her fight.”

We were making our way back to a sheltered box valley where we typically practiced the Ketan and our hand fighting.

However, my mind kept spinning back to several unavoidable and unpleasant thoughts. I was thinking about secrets and how people longed to keep them. I wondered what Kilvin would do if I brought someone into the Fishery and showed them the sygaldry for blood and bone and hair.

The thought of the big artificer’s anger was enough to make me shiver. I knew the sort of trouble I would face. That was clearly laid out in the University’s laws. But what would he do to the person I had taught these things to?

Vashet slapped my chest with the back of her hand to get my attention. “I said you should be flattered,” she repeated.

“I am,” I said.

She took hold of my shoulder, turning me to face her. “You’ve gone all pensive on me.”

“What will be done with Tempi if all of this ends badly?” I asked bluntly.

Her cheerful expression faded. “His reds will be taken away, and his sword, and his name, and he will be cut away from the Latantha.” She drew a slow breath. “It is unlikely any other school would take him after such a thing, so this would effectively exile him from all Ademre.”

“But exile won’t work for me,” I said. “Forcing me back into the world would only make the problem worse, wouldn’t it?”

Vashet didn’t say anything.

“When all of this started,” I said. “You encouraged me to leave. If I had run, would I have been allowed to go?”

There was a long silence that told me the truth of it. But she said it aloud, too. “No.”

I appreciated not being lied to about it. “And what is my punishment to be?” I asked. “Imprisonment?” I shook my head. “No. It’s not practical to keep me locked up here for years.” I looked up at her. “So what?”

“Punishment is not our concern,” she said. “You are a barbarian, after all. You did not know you were doing anything wrong. The main concern is to prevent you from teaching others what you have stolen, to keep you from using it to your own profit.”

She hadn’t answered my question. I gave her a long look.

“Some say killing you would be the best way,” she said frankly. “But most believe killing is not in keeping with the Lethani. Shehyn is among these. As am I.”

I relaxed slightly, that was something at least. “And I don’t suppose a promise on my part would reassure anyone?”

She gave me a sympathetic smile. “It speaks well of you that you came back with Tempi. And you stayed when I tried to drive you away. But the promise of a barbarian amounts for little in this.”

“What then?” I asked, suspecting the answer and knowing I wasn’t going to like it.

She took a deep breath. “You could be prevented from teaching by removing your tongue or putting out your eyes,” she said frankly. “To keep you from using the Ketan you might be hobbled. Your ankle tendon cut, or the knee of your favored leg lamed.” She shrugged. “But one can still be a good fighter even with a damaged leg. So it would be more effective to remove the two smallest fingers from your right hand. This would be . . .”

Vashet kept speaking in her matter-of-fact tone. I think she intended it to be reassuring, calming. But it had the opposite effect. All I could think of was her cutting off my fingers as calmly as you would pare away a piece of apple. Everything grew bright around the edges of my vision, and the vivid mental picture made my stomach roll over. I thought for a moment I might be sick.

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