Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (153 page)

Shehyn nodded. “I agree.You have done well to find it.”

Vashet’s relief was palpable, though her face still looked somewhat stricken. “It will perhaps offset his name,” she said. She held the sword out to Shehyn.

Shehyn gestured:
Refusal
. “No. Your student. Your choice. Your responsibility.”

Vashet took the scabbard from the wall and sheathed the sword. Then she turned and held it out to me. “This is named Saicere.”

“Caesura?” I asked, startled by the name. Wasn’t that what Sim had called the break in the line of Eld Vintic verse? Was I being given a poet’s sword?

“Saicere,” she said softly, as if it were the name of God. She stepped back, and I felt the weight of it settle back into my hands.

Sensing something was expected of me, I drew it from its sheath. The faint ring of leather and metal seemed a whisper of its name:
Saicere
. It felt light in my hand. The blade was flawless. I slid it back into its sheath and the sound was different. It sounded like the breaking of a line. It said:
Caesura
.

Shehyn opened the inner door, and we left as we came. Silently and with respect.

The rest of the day was quite the opposite of exciting. With a dogged and humorless persistence, Vashet taught me how to care for my sword. How to clean and oil my sword. How to dismantle and reassemble my sword. How to strap the scabbard to my shoulder or hip. How the slightly enlarged guard would alter a few of the grips and motions of the Ketan.

The sword was not mine. The sword belonged to the school. To Ademre. I would return it when I was no longer able to fight.

While I normally have little tolerance for hearing the same thing over and over again, I let Vashet ramble. The least I could do was let her repeat herself a bit when she was plainly anxious and trying to settle her mind.

Around the fifteenth repetition, I asked what I should do if the sword broke. Not the hilt or the guard, but the blade itself. Should I still bring it back?

Vashet gave me a look of dismay so raw it verged on horror. She didn’t answer, and I made a point of not asking any more questions for the rest of the morning.

After lunch Vashet took me back to Magwyn’s cave. My teacher’s mood seemed somewhat improved, but she was still far from her regular gregarious self.

“Magwyn will be giving you Saicere’s story,” she said. “You must memorize it.”

“Its story?” I asked.

Vashet shrugged. “In Ademic it is
Atas
. It is the history of your sword. Everyone who has carried it. What they have done. It is something you must know.”

We reached the top of the path and stood before Magwyn’s door. Vashet gave me a serious look. “You must be on your best behavior and be very polite.”

“I will,” I said.

“Magwyn is an important person, and you must attend closely to what she says.”

“I will,” I said.

Vashet knocked on the door and escorted me in.

Magwyn sat at the same table as before. For all I could tell, she was copying the same book. She smiled when she saw Vashet, then noticed me and let her face slide into the familiar Adem impassivity.

“Magwyn,” Vashet said.
Profoundly polite entreaty
. “This one needs the
Atas
of his sword.”

“Which sword did you find for him?” Magwyn asked, her face wrinkling even further as she squinted to see.

“Saicere,”Vashet said.

Magwyn gave a laugh that was almost a cackle. She got down off her chair. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said, and disappeared through a door that led back into the cliff.

Vashet let herself out, and I stood there feeling awkward, like one of those terrible dreams when you’re on stage and can’t remember what to say, or even what part you were meaning to play.

Magwyn returned, carrying a thick book bound in brown leather. At a gesture from her, we took seats in chairs facing each other. Hers was a deeply cushioned leather chair. Mine was not. I sat with Caesura across my knees. Partly because it seemed appropriate, and partly because I was fond of the feel of it beneath my hand.

She opened the book, the binding crackling as she spread it open on her lap. She flipped pages for a moment until she found the place she was looking for. “First came Chael,” she read. “Who shaped me in fire for an unknown purpose. He carried me then cast me aside.”

Magwyn looked up, unable to gesture as her hands were both occupied by the large book. “Well?” she demanded.

“What would you like me to do?” I asked politely. I couldn’t gesture due to my bandages. We made a fine pair of half-mutes.

“Repeat it back,” she said, irritated. “You need to learn them all.”

“First came Chael,” I said. “Who shaped me in fire for an unknown purpose. He carried me then cast me aside.”

She nodded and continued. “Next came Etaine . . .”

I repeated it. We continued this way for perhaps a half hour. Owner after owner. Name after name. Loyalties declaimed and enemies killed.

At first the names and places were tantalizing. Then, as it continued, the list began to depress me, as nearly each piece ended with the death of the owner. They were not peaceful deaths either. Some died in wars, some in duels. Many were merely “killed by” or “slain by,” giving no clue as to the circumstances. After thirty of these, I had heard nothing resembling, “Passed from this world peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by fat grandchildren.”

Then the list stopped being depressing and became simply boring instead.

“Next came Finol of the clear and shining eye,” I repeated attentively. “Much beloved of Dulcen. She herself slew two daruna, then was killed by gremmen at the Drossen Tor.”

I cleared my throat before Magwyn could recite another passage. “If I may ask,” I said. “How many have carried Caesura over the years?”

“Saicere,” she corrected me sharply. “Do not presume to meddle with her name. It means to break, to catch, and to fly.”

I looked down at the sheathed sword across my lap. I felt the weight of it, the chill of the metal under my fingers. A small sliver of the smooth grey blade was visible above the top of the sheath.

How can I say this so you can understand? Saicere was a fine name. It was thin and bright and dangerous. It fit the sword like a glove fits a hand.

But it wasn’t the perfect name. This sword’s name was Caesura. This sword was the jarring break in a line of perfect verse. It was the broken breath. It was smooth and swift and sharp and deadly. The name didn’t fit like a glove. It fit like skin. More than that. It was bone and muscle and movement. Those things
are
the hand. And Caesura was the sword. It was the both the name and the thing itself.

I can’t tell you how I knew this. But I knew it.

Besides, if I was to be a namer, I decided I could damn well choose the name of my own sword.

I looked up at Magwyn. “It is a good name,” I agreed politely, deciding to keep my opinion to myself until I was well gone from Ademre. “I am only wondering how many owners there have been entirely. That is something I should know as well.”

Magwyn gave me a sour look that said she knew I was patronizing her. But she flipped ahead several pages in her book. Then a few more.

Then a few more.

“Two hundred and thirty-six,” she said. “You will be the two hundred thirty-seventh.” She flipped back to the beginning of the list. “Let us begin again.” She drew a breath and said. “First came Chael, who shaped me in fire for an unknown purpose. He carried me then cast me aside.”

I fought down the urge to sigh. Even with my trouper’s knack for learning lines it would take long, weary days setting them all to memory.

Then I realized what this truly meant. If each owner had kept Caesura for ten years, and it had never sat idle for longer than a day or two, that meant Caesura was, at a very conservative estimate, more than two thousand years old.

I received my next surprise three hours later when I tried to excuse myself for supper. As I stood to leave Magwyn explained I was to remain with her until I learned all of Caesura’s story by heart. Someone would bring us our meals, and there was a room nearby where I could sleep.

First came Chael . . .

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX

The First Stone

I
SPENT THE NEXT THREE days with Magwyn. It wasn’t bad, especially considering my left hand was still healing, so my ability to talk and fight was rather limited.

I like to think I did rather well. It would have been easier for me to memorize an entire play than this. A play fits together like a jigsaw. Dialogue moves back and forth. There is a shape to a story.

But what I learned from Magwyn was merely a long string of unfamiliar names and unconnected events. It was a laundry list masquerading as a story.

Still, I learned it all by heart. It was late in the evening of the third day when I recited it back flawlessly to Magwyn. The hardest part was not singing it as I recited. Music carries words over miles and into hearts and memories. Committing Caesura’s history to memory had been much easier when I’d started fitting it to the tune of an old Vintish ballad in my head.

The next morning Magwyn demanded I recite it again. After I made it through a second time, she scribbled a note to Shehyn, sealed it in wax, and shooed me out of her cave.

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