Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (16 page)

I stopped. Fela was watching me with wide, frightened eyes.

Simmon continued firmly. “Kvothe, I am telling you three times: sit down.”

I sat.

Standing behind him, Fela looked at Simmon, surprised.

“Thank you,” Simmon said graciously, lowering his hands. “I agree. The Medica isn’t the best place for you. We can just ride this out here.”

“That sounds better to me too,” I said.

“Even if things did go smoothly at the Medica,” Simmon added. “I expect you will be more inclined to speak your mind than usual.” He gave a small, wry smile. “Secrets are the cornerstone of civilization, and I know you have a few more than most folk.”

“I don’t think I have any secrets,” I said.

Sim and Fela both burst out laughing at the same time. “I’m afraid you just proved his point,” Fela said. “I know you have at least a few.”

“So do I,” Sim said.

“You’re my touchstone,” I shrugged. Then I smiled at Fela and pulled out my purse.

Sim shook his head at me. “No no no. I’ve already told you. Seeing her naked would be the worst thing in the world right now.”

Fela’s eyes narrowed a little at that.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Are you worried I’ll tackle her to the ground and ravage her?” I laughed.

Sim looked at me. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not,” I said.

He looked at Fela, then back. “Can you say why?” he asked curiously.

I thought about it. “It’s because . . .” I trailed off, then shook my head. “It ...I just can’t. I know I can’t eat a stone or walk through a wall. It’s like that.”

I concentrated on it for a second and began to get dizzy. I put one hand over my eyes and tried to ignore the sudden vertigo. “Please tell me I’m right about that,” I asked, suddenly scared. “I can’t eat a stone, can I?”

“You’re right,” Fela said quickly. “You can’t.”

I stopped trying to rummage around the inside of my mind for answers and the odd vertigo faded.

Sim was watching me intently.“I wish I knew what
that
signified,” he said.

“I have a fair idea,” Fela murmured softly.

I drew the ivory admissions tile out of my purse. “I was just looking to trade,” I said. “Unless you are willing to let me see you naked.” I hefted the purse with my other hand and met Fela’s eye. “Sim says it’s wrong, but he’s an idiot with women. My head might not be screwed on quite as tightly as I’d like, but I remember that clearly.”

It was four hours before my inhibitions began to filter back, and two more before they were firmly in place. Simmon spent the entire day with me, patient as a priest, explaining that no, I shouldn’t go buy us a bottle of brand. No, I shouldn’t go kick the dog that was barking across the street. No, I shouldn’t go to Imre and look for Denna. No. Three times no.

By the time the sun went down I was back to my regular, semi-moral self. Simmon quizzed me extensively before walking me back to my room at Anker’s, where he made me swear on my mother’s milk that I wouldn’t leave my room until morning. I swore.

But all was not right with me. My emotions were still running hot, flaring up at every little thing. Worse, my memory hadn’t simply returned to normal, it was back with a vivid and uncontrollable enthusiasm.

It hadn’t been that bad when I was with Simmon. His presence was a pleasant distraction. But alone in my small garret room in Anker’s, I was at the mercy of my memory. It was as if my mind was determined to unpack and examine every sharp and painful thing I had ever seen.

You might think the worst memories were those of when my troupe was killed. Of how I came back to our camp and found everything aflame. The unnatural shapes my parents’ bodies made in the dim twilight. The smell of scorched canvas and blood and burning hair. Memories of the ones who killed them. Of the Chandrian. Of the man who spoke to me, grinning all the while. Of Cinder.

These were bad memories, but over the years I had brought them out and handled them so often there was hardly a sharp edge left to them. I remembered the pitch and timbre of Haliax’s voice as clearly as my father’s. I could easily bring to mind the face of Cinder. His perfect, smiling teeth. His white, curling hair. His eyes, black as beads of ink. His voice, full of winter’s chill, saying:
Someone’s parents have been singing entirely the wrong sorts of songs
.

You would think these would be the worst memories. But you would be wrong.

No. The worst memories were those of my young life. The slow roll and bump of riding in the wagon, my father holding the reins loosely. His strong hands on my shoulders, showing me how to stand on the stage so my body said
proud
, or
sad
, or
shy
. His fingers adjusting mine on the strings of his lute.

My mother brushing my hair. The feel of her arms around me. The perfect way my head fit into the curve of her neck. How I would sit, curled in her lap next to the fire at night, drowsy and happy and safe.

These were the worst memories. Precious and perfect. Sharp as a mouthful of broken glass. I lay in bed, clenched into a trembling knot, unable to sleep, unable to turn my mind to other things, unable to stop myself from remembering. Again. And again. And again.

Then there came a small tapping at my window. A sound so tiny I didn’t notice it until it stopped. Then I heard the window ease open behind me.

“Kvothe?” Auri said softly.

I clenched my teeth against the sobbing and lay still as I could, hoping she would think I was asleep and leave.

“Kvothe?” she called again. “I brought you—” There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Oh.”

I heard a soft sound behind me. The moonlight showed her tiny shadow on the wall as she climbed through the window. I felt the bed move as she settled onto it.

A small, cool hand brushed the side of my face.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Come here.”

I began to cry quietly, and she gently uncurled the tight knot of me until my head lay in her lap. She murmured, brushing my hair away from my forehead, her hands cool against my hot face.

“I know,” she said sadly. “It’s bad sometimes, isn’t it?”

She stroked my hair gently, and it only made me cry harder. I could not remember the last time someone had touched me in a loving way.

“I know,” she said. “You have a stone in your heart, and some days it’s so heavy there is nothing to be done. But you don’t have to be alone for it. You should have come to me. I understand.”

My body clenched and suddenly the taste of plum filled my mouth again. “I miss her,” I said before I realized I was speaking. Then I bit it off before I could say anything else. I clenched my teeth and shook my head furiously, like a horse fighting its reins.

“You can say it,” Auri said gently.

I shook again, tasted plum, and suddenly the words were pouring out of me. “She said I sang before I spoke. She said when I was just a baby she had the habit of humming when she held me. Nothing like a song. Just a descending third. Just a soothing sound. Then one day she was walking me around the camp, and she heard me echo it back to her. Two octaves higher. A tiny piping third. She said it was my first song. We sang it back and forth to each other. For years.” I choked and clenched my teeth.

“You can say it,” Auri said softly. “It’s okay if you say it.”

“I’m never going to see her again,” I choked out. Then I began to cry in earnest.

“It’s okay,” Auri said softly. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Questions

T
HE NEXT FEW DAYS were neither pleasant nor productive. Fela’s admissions slot was at the very end of the span, so I attempted to put the extra time to good use. I tried to do some piecework in the Fishery, but quickly returned to my room when I broke down crying halfway through inscribing a heat funnel. Not only couldn’t I maintain the proper Alar, but the last thing I needed was for people to think I’d cracked under the stress of admissions.

Later that night, when I tried to crawl through the narrow tunnel into the Archives, the taste of plum flooded my mouth, and I was filled with a mindless fear of the dark, confining space. Luckily, I’d only gone a dozen feet, but even so I almost gave myself a concussion struggling backwards out of the tunnel, and my palms were scraped raw from my panicked scrabbling against the stone.

So I spent the next two days pretending I was sick and keeping to my tiny room. I played my lute, slept fitfully, and thought dark thoughts of Ambrose.

Anker was cleaning up when I came downstairs. “Feeling better?” he asked.

“A bit,” I said. Yesterday I’d only had two plum echoes, and they were very brief. Better yet, I’d managed to sleep the whole night through. It seemed I was through the worst of it.

“You hungry?”

I shook my head. “Admissions today.”

Anker frowned. “You should have something, then. An apple.” He bustled around behind the bar, then brought out a pottery mug and a heavy jug. “Have some milk too. I’ve got to make use of it before it turns. Damn iceless started giving up the ghost a couple days ago. Three talents solid that thing cost me. I knew I shouldn’t have wasted money on it with ice so cheap around here.”

I leaned over the bar and peered at the long wooden box tucked away among the mugs and bottles. “I could take a look at it for you,” I offered.

Anker raised an eyebrow. “Can you do something with it?”

“I can look,” I said. “Could be something simple I could fix.”

Anker shrugged. “You can’t break it more than it’s already broken.” He wiped his hands on his apron and motioned me behind the bar. “I’ll do you a couple eggs while you’re having your look. I should use those up too.” He opened the long box, took out a handful of eggs, then walked back into the kitchen.

I made my way around the corner of the bar and knelt to look at the iceless. It was a stone-lined box the size of a small traveling trunk. Anywhere other than the University it would have been a miracle of artificing, a luxury. Here, where such things were easy to come by, it was just another piece of needless God-bothering that wasn’t working properly.

It was about as simple a piece of artificing as could be made. No moving parts at all, just two flat bands of tin covered in sygaldry that moved heat from one end of the metal band to the other. It was really nothing more than a slow, inefficient heat siphon.

I crouched down and rested my fingers on the tin bands. The right-hand one was warm, meaning the half on the inside would be correspondingly cool. But the one on the left was room temperature. I craned my neck to get a look at the sygaldry and spotted a deep scratch in the tin, scoring through two of the runes.

That explained it. A piece of sygaldry is like a sentence in a lot of ways. If you remove a couple words, it simply doesn’t make any sense. I should say it
usually
doesn’t make sense. Sometimes a damaged piece of sygaldry can do something truly unpleasant. I frowned down at the band of tin. This was sloppy artificing. The runes should have been on the inside of the band where they couldn’t be damaged.

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