Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (157 page)

“A sword is sharp,” she said. “It is a tool. I carry it constantly, how is using it improper?”

“It seems
disrespectful
, ” I clarified.

“You respect a thing by putting it to good use,” she said. “It may be years before I return to the barbarian lands and fight. How does it harm my sword if it cuts kindling and carrots in the meantime?” Vashet’s eyes grew serious. “To carry a sword your whole life, knowing it was only for killing . . .” She shook her head. “What would that do to a person’s mind? It would be a horrible thing.”

Vashet had returned to Haert last night, dismayed that she had missed my stone trial. She said I was right to lay aside my sword when Carceret did, and that I had made her proud.

Yesterday, Shehyn had formally invited me to stay and train at the school. In theory, I already had earned that right, but everyone knew that was more of a political fiction than anything. Her offer was a flattering one, an opportunity I knew I would likely never have again.

We watched a boy herd a flock of goats down the side of a hill. “Vashet, is it true that the Adem have no concept of fatherhood?”

Vashet nodded easily, then paused. “Tell me you did not embarrass both of us by talking about this with everyone while I was gone,” she said with a sigh.

“Only with Penthe,” I said. “She thought it was the funniest thing she had heard in ten months’ time.”

“It is fairly amusing at that,” Vashet said, her mouth curving a little.

“It’s true then?” I asked. “Even you believe this? You’ve . . .”

Vashet held up a hand and I trailed off. “Peace,” she said. “Think whatever you wish about your man-mothers. It is all the same to me.” She gave a soft smile of remembrance. “My poet king actually believed a woman was nothing more than the ground in which a man might plant a baby.”

Vashet made an amused huffing sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “He was so sure he was right. Nothing could sway him. Years ago I decided arguing such things with a barbarian is a long, weary waste of my time.” She shrugged. “Think what you want about making babies. Believe in demons. Pray to a goat. So long as it doesn’t bruise me, why should I bother myself?”

I chewed it over for a moment. “There’s wisdom in that,” I said.

She nodded.

“But either a man helps with a baby or he does not,” I pointed out. “There can be many opinions on a thing, but there is only one truth.”

Vashet smiled lazily. “And if the pursuit of truth was my goal, that would concern me.” She gave a long yawn, stretching like a happy cat. “Instead I will focus on the joy in my heart, the prosperity of the school, and understanding the Lethani. If I have time left after that, I will put it toward worrying on the truth.”

We watched the sunrise for a while longer in silence. It occurred to me Vashet was quite a different person when she wasn’t struggling to cram the Ketan and all of Ademic into my head as quickly as possible.

“That said,” Vashet added, “if you persist in clinging to your barbarian beliefs about man-mothers, you would do well to keep quiet about it. Amusement is the best you can hope for. Most will simply assume you an idiot for thinking such things.”

I nodded. After a long moment, I decided to finally ask the question I had been holding off for days. “Magwyn called me Maedre. What does it mean?”

“It is your name,” she said. “Speak of it to no one.”

“It is a secret thing?” I asked.

She nodded. “It is a thing for you and your teachers and Magwyn. It would be dangerous to let others know what it is.”

“How could it be dangerous?”

Vashet looked at me as if I were daft. “When you know a name you have power over it. Surely you know this?”

“But I know your name, and Shehyn’s and Tempi’s. What danger is in that?”

She waved a hand. “Not those names. Deep names. Tempi is not the name he was given by Magwyn. Just as Kvothe is not yours. Deep names have meanings.”

I already knew what Vashet’s name meant. “What does Tempi mean?”

“Tempi means ‘little iron.’ Tempa means iron, and it means to strike iron, and it means angry. Shehyn gave him that name years ago. He was a most troublesome student.”

“In Aturan temper means angry.” I pointed it out rather excitedly, amazed at the coincidence. “And it is also something you do with iron when forging it into steel.”

Vashet shrugged, unimpressed. “That is the way of names. Tempi is a small name, and still it holds much. That is why you should not speak of yours, even to me.”

“But I do not know your language well enough to tell what it means myself,” I protested. “A man should know the meaning of his own name.”

Vashet hesitated, then relented. “It means flame, and thunder, and broken tree.”

I thought for a while and decided I liked it. “When Magwyn gave it to me, you seemed surprised. Why is that?”

“It is not proper for me to comment on another’s name.”
Absolute refusal
. Her gesture was so sharp it almost hurt to look at. She came to her feet, then brushed her hands against her pants. “Come, it is time you gave your answer to Shehyn.”

Shehyn motioned for us to sit as we entered her room. Then she took a seat herself, startling me by showing the smallest of smiles. It was a terribly flattering gesture of familiarity. “Have you decided?” she asked.

I nodded. “I thank you, Shehyn, but I cannot stay. I must return to Severen to speak with the Maer. Tempi fulfilled his obligation when the road was made safe, but I am bound to return and explain everything that happened.” I thought of Denna as well, but didn’t mention her.

Shehyn gestured an elegant mingling of
approval
and
regret
. “Fulfilling one’s duty is of the Lethani.” She gave me a serious look. “Remember, you have a sword and a name, but you must not hire yourself out as if you had taken the red.”

“Vashet has explained everything to me,” I said.
Reassurance
. “I will make arrangements for my sword to be returned to Haert if I am killed. I will not teach the Ketan or wear the red.”
Carefully attentive curiosity
. “But I am permitted to tell others I have studied fighting with you?”

Reserved agreement
. “You may say you have studied with us. But not that you are one of us.”

“Of course,” I said. “And not that I am equal to you.”

Shehyn gestured
content satisfaction
. Then her hands shifted and she made a small gesture of
embarrassed admission
. “This is not entirely a gift,” she said. “You will be a better fighter than many barbarians. If you fight and win, the barbarians will think: Kvothe studied only slightly the Adem’s arts, and still he is formidable. How much more skilled must they themselves be?”
However
. “If you fight and lose, they will think: He only learned a piece of what the Adem know.”

The old woman’s eyes twinkled ever so slightly. She gestured
amusement
. “No matter what, our reputation thrives. This serves Ademre.”

I nodded.
Willing acceptance
. “It will not hurt my reputation either,” I said.
Understatement
.

There was a pause in the conversation, then Shehyn gestured
solemn importance
. “When we spoke before, you asked me of the Rhinta. Do you remember?” Shehyn asked. From the corner of my eye I saw Vashet shift uncomfortably in her seat.

Suddenly excited, I nodded.

“I have remembered a story of such. Would you like to hear it?”

I gestured
extreme eager interest
.

“It is an old story, old as Ademre. It is always told the same. Are you ready to hear it?”
Profound formality
. There was a hint of ritual in her voice.

I nodded again.
Pleading entreaty
.

“As with all things, there are rules. I will tell this story once. After, you may not speak of it. After, you may not ask questions.” Shehyn looked back and forth between Vashet and myself.
Grave seriousness
. “Not until you have slept one thousand nights may you speak on this. Not until you have traveled one thousand miles may you ask questions. Knowing this, are you willing to hear it?”

I nodded a third time, my excitement rising in me.

Shehyn spoke with great formality. “Once there was a great realm peopled by great people. They were not Ademre. They were what Ademre was before we became ourselves.

“But at this time they were themselves, the women and men fair and strong. They sang songs of power and fought as well as Ademre do.

“These people had a great empire. The name of the empire is forgotten. It is not important as the empire has fallen, and since that time the land has broken and the sky changed.

“In the empire there were seven cities and one city. The names of the seven cities are forgotten, for they are fallen to treachery and destroyed by time. The one city was destroyed as well, but its name remains. It was called Tariniel.

“The empire had an enemy, as strength must have. But the enemy was not great enough to pull it down. Not by pulling or pushing was the enemy strong enough to drag it down. The enemy’s name is remembered, but it will wait.

“Since not by strength could the enemy win, he moved like a worm in fruit. The enemy was not of the Lethani. He poisoned seven others against the empire, and they forgot the Lethani. Six of them betrayed the cities that trusted them. Six cities fell and their names are forgotten.

“One remembered the Lethani, and did not betray a city. That city did not fall. One of them remembered the Lethani and the empire was left with hope. With one unfallen city. But even the name of that city is forgotten, buried in time.

“But seven names are remembered. The name of the one and of the six who follow him. Seven names have been carried through the crumbling of empire, through the broken land and changing sky. Seven names are remembered through the long wandering of Ademre. Seven names have been remembered, the names of the seven traitors. Remember them and know them by their seven signs:

Cyphus bears the blue flame.
Stercus is in thrall of iron.
Ferule chill and dark of eye.
Usnea lives in nothing but decay.
Grey Dalcenti never speaks.
Pale Alenta brings the blight.
Last there is the lord of seven:
Hated. Hopeless. Sleepless. Sane.
Alaxel bears the shadow’s hame.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-NINE

Interlude—Din of Whispering

“R
ESHI!” BAST CRIED OUT, his face stricken. “No! Stop!” He held out his hands as if he would press them against the innkeeper’s mouth. “You shouldn’t say such things!”

Kvothe smiled in a humorless way. “Bast, who taught you your name lore in the first place?”

“Not you, Reshi.” Bast shook his head. “There are things every Fae child knows. It’s never good to speak such things aloud. Not ever.”

“And why is that?” Kvothe prompted in his best teacher’s voice.

“Because some things can tell when their names are spoken,” Bast swallowed. “They can tell
where
they’re spoken.”

Kvothe gave a somewhat exasperated sigh. “There’s small harm in saying a name once, Bast.” He sat back in his chair. “Why do you think the Adem have their traditions surrounding that particular story? Only once and no questions after?”

Bast’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and Kvothe gave him a small, tight smile. “Exactly. Trying to find someone who speaks your name once is like tracking a man through a forest from a single footprint.”

Chronicler spoke up hesitantly, as if afraid of interrupting. “Can such a thing really be done?” he asked. “Truthfully?”

Kvothe nodded grimly. “I expect that’s how they found my troupe when I was young.”

Chronicler looked around nervously, then frowned and made an obvious effort to stop. The result was that he sat very still, looking every bit as nervous as before. “Does that mean they might come here? You’ve certainly been talking about them enough. . . .”

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