Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (176 page)

“Your cloak, boy. Your turning cape. How in God’s sweet grace did you tumble onto a shaed?” He mistook my surprise for ignorance. “Don’t you know what you’re wearing?”

“I know what it is,” I said. “I’m just surprised that you do.”

He gave me an insulted look. “I wouldn’t be much of a namer if I couldn’t spot a faerie cloak a dozen feet away.” He took a corner of it between his fingers. “Oh, that’s just lovely. Here’s a piece of old magic man rarely lays a finger on.”

“It’s new magic, actually,” I said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

When it became obvious my explanation involved a long story, Elodin led us into a small, cozy pub I’d never seen before. I hesitate to call it a pub at all, actually. It wasn’t full of chattering students and the smell of beer. It was dim and quiet with a low ceiling and scattered clusters of deep, comfortable chairs. It smelled of leather and old wine.

We sat near a warm radiator and sipped mulled cider while I told him the whole story of my unintentional trip into the Fae. It was a wonderful relief. I hadn’t been able to tell anyone yet for fear of being laughed out of the University.

Elodin proved to be a surprisingly attentive audience and was especially interested in the fight Felurian and I had had when she had tried to bend me to her will. After I’d finished the story, he peppered me with questions. Could I remember what I’d said to call the wind? How had it felt? The strange wakefulness I described, was it more like being drunk, or more like going into shock?

I answered as best I could, and eventually he leaned back in his chair, nodding to himself. “It’s a good sign when a student goes chasing the wind and catches it,” he said approvingly. “That’s twice you’ve called it now. It can only get easier.”

“Three times, actually,” I said. “I found it again when I was off in Ademre.”

He laughed. “You chased it to the edge of the map!” he said, making a broad motion with his splayed left hand. Stunned, I realized it was Adem hand-talk for
amazed respect
. “How did it feel? Do you think you could find its name again if you had need of it?”

I concentrated, trying to nudge my mind into Spinning Leaf. It had been a month and a thousand miles since I’d tried, and it was hard to tip my mind into that strange, tumbling emptiness.

Eventually I managed it. I looked around the small room, hoping to see the name of the wind like a familiar friend. But there was nothing there except dust motes swirling in a beam of sunlight that slanted through a window.

“Well?” Elodin asked. “Could you call it if you needed to?”

I hesitated. “Maybe.”

Elodin nodded as if he understood. “But probably not if someone were to ask you to?”

I nodded, more than a little disappointed.

“Don’t be discouraged. It will give us something to work toward.” He grinned happily and clapped me on the back. “But I think there’s more to your story than you realize. You called more than the wind. From what you’ve said, I believe you called Felurian’s name itself.”

I thought back. My memories of my time in the Fae were oddly patchy, none more than my confrontation with Felurian, which had an odd, almost dreamlike quality to it. When I tried to remember it in detail, it almost seemed as if it had happened to another person. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“It’s more than possible,” he assured me. “I doubt a creature as old and powerful as Felurian could be subdued with nothing more than wind. Not to belittle your accomplishment,” he hurried to add. “Calling the wind is more than one student in a thousand ever manages. But calling the name of a living thing, let alone one of the Fae . . .” He raised his eyebrows at me. “That’s a horse of a different color.”

“Why would a person’s name be so much different?” I asked, then answered my own question. “The complexity.”

“Exactly,” he said. My understanding seemed to excite him. “To name a thing you must understand it entire. A stone or a piece of wind is difficult enough. A person . . .” He trailed off significantly.

“I couldn’t claim to understand Felurian,” I said.

“Some part of you did,” he insisted. “Your sleeping mind. A rare thing indeed. If you’d known how difficult it was, you never would have stood a chance of doing it.”

Since poverty no longer forced me to work endless hours in the Fishery, I was free to study more broadly than ever before. I continued my usual classes in sympathy, medicine, and artificing, then added chemistry, herbology, and comparative female anatomy.

My curiosity had been pricked by my encounter with the Lockless box, and I attempted to learn something about Yllish story knots. But I quickly discovered most books on Yll were historical, not linguistic, and gave no information as to how I might actually read a knot.

So I scoured the Dead Ledgers and discovered a single shelf of disused books concerning Yll in one of the unpleasant, low-ceilinged sections of the lower basements. Then, while looking for a place to sit and read, I discovered a small room tucked behind a piece of jutting shelving.

It wasn’t a reading hole as I suspected. Inside were hundreds of large wooden spools wound about with knotted string. They weren’t books, precisely, but they were the Yllish equivalent. A thin layer of dust covered everything, and I doubted anyone had been in the room for decades.

I have a vast weakness for secret things. But I quickly found that reading the knots was impossible without first understanding Yllish. There were no classes on the subject, and asking around revealed none of Master Linguist’s gillers knew more than a scattering of words.

I wasn’t terribly surprised, considering Yll had been nearly ground to dust under the iron boots of the Aturan Empire. The piece that remained today was populated mostly by sheep. And if you stood in the middle of the country, you could throw a stone across the border. Still, it was a disappointing end to my search.

Then, several days later, Master Linguist summoned me to his office. He’d heard that I’d been making inquiries, and he happened to speak Yllish rather well. He offered to tutor me personally, and I gladly took him up on his offer.

Since I’d come to the University, I’d only seen Master Linguist during admissions interviews and when I was brought up on the horns for disciplinary reasons. Acting as Chancellor, he was rather grim and formal. But when he wasn’t sitting in the Chancellor’s chair, Master Herma was a surprisingly deft and gentle teacher. He was witty with a surprisingly irreverent sense of humor. The first time he told me a dirty joke, you could have knocked me over with a feather.

Elodin wasn’t teaching a class this term, but I began to study naming privately under his direction. It went more smoothly now that I understood there was a method to his madness.

Count Threpe was overjoyed to find me alive and threw a resurrection party where I was proudly displayed to the local nobility. I had a suit of clothes tailored specifically for the event, and in a fit of nostalgia I chose to have them done in the colors my old troupe had worn: the green and grey of Lord Greyfallow’s men.

After the party, over a bottle of wine in his sitting room, I told Threpe of my adventures. I left off the story of Felurian, as I knew he wouldn’t believe it. And I couldn’t tell him half of what I’d done in the Maer’s service. Consequently, Threpe thought Alveron had been quite generous in rewarding me. I didn’t argue the point.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FIVE

Stories

A
MBROSE HAD BEEN BLESSEDLY absent during the winter term, but when spring arrived he came back to roost like some sort of hateful, migratory bird. By no coincidence, the day after he returned, I skipped all my classes and spent the entire day making myself a new gram.

As soon as the snow melted and the ground grew firm again, I resumed my practice of the Ketan. Remembering how odd it had looked when I’d first seen it, I did this in the privacy of the forest north of the University.

With spring term came a new round of admissions. I showed up for my interview with a profound hangover and fumbled a few questions. My tuition was set at eighteen talents and five, earning me four talents and change from the Bursar.

Sales of the Bloodless had slackened over the winter, as there were fewer merchants visiting the University. But once snows melted and roads grew dry, the handful that had accumulated in the Stocks sold quickly, bringing me another six talents.

I was unused to having so much money at my disposal, and I’ll admit I went a little mad with it. I owned six suits of clothes that fit me and had all the paper I could use. I bought fine, dark ink from Arueh and purchased my own set of engraving tools. I had two pairs of shoes.
Two
.

I found an ancient, ragged Yllish dictum buried in a bookstore in Imre. Full of drawings of knots, the bookstore owner thought it was a sailor’s journal and I bought it for a mere talent and a half. Not long after I bought a copy of
The Heroborica,
then added a copy of
Termigus Techina
I could use as a reference while designing schema in the privacy of my own room.

I bought dinner for my friends. Auri had new dresses and bright ribbons for her hair. All this and still money in my purse. How odd. How wonderful.

Toward the middle of the term I began to hear familiar stories. Stories about a certain red-haired adventurer who had spent the night with Felurian. Stories of a dashing young arcanist with all the powers of Taborlin the Great. It had taken months, but my exploits in Vintas had finally passed their way from mouth to ear all the long miles back to the University.

It may be true that when I finally became aware of these stories I lengthened my shaed a bit and wore it more often than before. It might also be the case that I spent a shameful amount of time in alehouses over the next several span, lurking quietly, listening to stories. I might even have gone so far as to offer a suggestion or two.

I was young, after all, and it was only natural for me to delight in my notoriety. I thought it would fade in time. Why shouldn’t I revel a bit in the sidelong glances my fellow students made? Why not enjoy it while it lasted?

Many of the stories centered around me hunting bandits and rescuing young girls. But none of them came terribly close to the truth. No story can move a thousand miles by word of mouth and keep its shape.

While the details differed, most of them followed a familiar thread: young women were in need of rescuing. Sometimes a nobleman hired me. Sometimes it was a concerned father, a distraught mayor, or a bumbling constable.

Most of the time I saved a pair of girls. Sometimes only one, sometimes there were three. They were best friends. They were mother and daughter. I heard one story where there were seven of them, all sisters, all beautiful princesses, all virgins. You know that sort of story.

There was a great deal of variety as to who exactly I was rescuing the girls from. Bandits were fairly common, but there were also wicked uncles, stepmothers, and shamble-men. One story, in an odd twist, had me rescuing them from Adem mercenaries. There was even an ogre or two.

While I did occasionally rescue the girls from a troupe of traveling players, I’m proud to say I never heard a story where they were kidnapped by the Edema Ruh.

Other books

The Circle Eight: Caleb by Lang, Emma

Solfleet: The Call of Duty by Smith, Glenn

The Shadow Reader by Sandy Williams

Die Buying by Laura DiSilverio

The Suburbs of Hell by Randolph Stow

Cold Light of Day by Anderson, Toni

The Major Crimes Team - Vol 1: Lines of Enquiry by Graham Smith

A Winter Affair by Minna Howard

Molly Moon & the Monster Music by Georgia Byng

A Journey Through Tudor England by Suzannah Lipscomb