Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (27 page)

It might have gone on for the entire class period, but eventually he tripped over a chair and tumbled painfully to the stone floor, tearing open the leg of his pants and bloodying his knee.

Clutching his leg, he sat on the ground and let loose with a string of angry cursing the like of which I had never heard in my entire life. He shouted and snarled and spat. He moved through at least eight languages, and even when I couldn’t understand the words he used, the sound of it made my gut clench and the hair on my arms stand up. He said things that made me sweat. He said things that made me sick. He said things I didn’t know it was possible to say.

I expect this might have continued, but while drawing an angry breath, he sucked one of the floating milkweed seeds into his mouth and began to cough and choke violently.

Eventually he spat out the seed, caught his breath, got to his feet, and limped out of the lecture hall without saying another word.

This was not a particularly odd day’s class under Master Elodin.

After Elodin’s class I ate a bit of lunch at Anker’s, then went to my shift in the Medica, watching more experienced El’the diagnose and treat incoming patients. After that I headed over the river with the hope of finding Denna. It was my third trip in as many days, but it was a crisp, sunny day, and after all my time in the Archives, I felt the need to stretch my legs a bit.

I stopped at the Eolian first, though it was far too early for Denna to be there. I chatted with Stanchion and Deoch before moving on to a few of the other inns I knew she occasionally frequented: Taps, Barrel and Bale, and Dog in the Wall. She wasn’t at any of those either.

I wandered through a few public gardens, their trees almost entirely devoid of leaves. Then I visited all the instrument shops I could find, browsing the lutes and asking if they’d seen a pretty dark-haired woman looking at harps. They hadn’t.

It was fully dark by then. So I stopped by the Eolian again and wandered slowly through the crowd. Denna was still nowhere to be seen, but I did meet up with Count Threpe. We shared a drink and listened to a few songs before I left.

I pulled my cloak more tightly around my shoulders as I started back to the University. Imre’s streets were busier now than they had been during the day, and despite the chill in the air, there was a festival feel to the town. Music of a dozen different kinds poured from the doorways of inns and theaters. People crowded in and out of restaurants and exhibition halls.

Then I heard a laugh rise high and bright over the low murmuring of the crowds. I would have recognized it anywhere. It was Denna’s laugh. I knew it like the backs of my own hands.

I turned around, feeling a smile spread across my face. This was always the way of it. I only seemed to be able to find her after I’d given up hope.

I scanned the faces in the milling throng and found her easily. Denna stood by the doorway of a small café, wearing a long dress of dark blue velvet.

I took a step toward her, then stopped. I watched as Denna spoke to someone standing behind the open door of a carriage. The only part of her companion I could see was the very top of his head. He was wearing a hat with a tall white plume.

A moment later, Ambrose closed the carriage door. He gave her a wide, charming smile and said something that made her laugh. Lamplight glittered on the gold brocade of his jacket, and his gloves were dyed the same dark, royal purple as his boots. The color should have looked garish on him, but it didn’t.

As I stood staring, a passing two-horse fetter cart nearly knocked me flat and trampled me, which would have been fair, as I was standing in the middle of the road. The driver cursed and flicked out with his horse whip as he went past. It caught me on the back of the neck, but I didn’t even feel it.

I regained my balance and looked up in time to see Ambrose kiss Denna’s hand. Then, moving gracefully, he offered her his arm and they entered the café, together.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Unspoken Fear

A
FTER SEEING AMBROSE AND Denna in Imre, I fell into a dark mood. On the walk back to the University my head spun with thoughts of them. Was Ambrose doing this purely out of spite? How had it happened? What was Denna thinking?

After a largely sleepless night, I tried not to think of it. Instead I burrowed deep into the Archives. Books are a poor substitute for female companionship, but they are easier to find. I consoled myself by hunting through the dark corners of the Archives for the Chandrian. I read until my eyes burned and my head felt thick and cramped.

Nearly a span passed, and I did little but attend classes and pillage the Archives. For my pains I gained lungs full of dust, a persistent headache from hours of reading by sympathy light, and a knot between my shoulder blades from hunching over a low table while I paged through the faded remains of the Gilean ledgers.

I also found a single mention of the Chandrian. It was in a handwritten octavo titled
A Quainte Compendium of Folke Belief
.At my best guess, the book was two hundred years old.

The book was a collection of stories and superstitions gathered by an amateur historian in Vintas. Unlike
The Mating Habits of the Common Draccus
, it made no attempt to prove or disprove these beliefs. The author had simply collected and organized the stories with occasional brief commentaries about how beliefs seemed to change from region to region.

It was an impressive volume, obviously comprising years of research. There were four chapters about demons. Three chapters for faeries: one of which was entirely devoted to tales of Felurian. There were pages on the shamble-men, rendlings, and the trow. The author recorded songs about the grey ladies and white riders. A lengthy section on barrow draugar. There were six chapters on folk magic: eight ways to cure warts, twelve ways to talk to the dead, twenty-two love charms . . .

The entire entry on the Chandrian was less than half a page:

Of the Chaendrian there is little to be said. Every Man knows of them. Every child chants their song. Yet folke tell no stories.
For the price of a small beer a Farmer will talk two hours on Dannerlings. But mention the Chaendrian and his mouth goes tight as a Spinner’s Asse and he is touching iron and pushing back his chair.
Many think it bad luck to speak of the Fae, yet still folke do. What makes the Chaendrian different I knowe notte. One rather drunk Tanner in the towne of Hillesborrow said in hushed tones, “If you talk of them, they come for you.” This seems the unspoken fear of these common folke.
So I write what I have gleaned, all common and inspecific. The Chaendrian are a groupe of various number. (Likely seven, given their name.) They appear and commit diverse violence for no clear reason.
There are signs which herald their Arrival, but there is no agreement as to these. Blue flame is the most common, but I have also heard of wine going sour, blindness, crops withering, unseasonable storms, miscarriage, and the sun going dark in the sky.
Altogether, I have found them a Frustrating and Profitless area of Inquirey.

I closed the book. Frustrating and profitless had a familiar ring to it.

The worst part wasn’t that I already knew everything written in the entry. The worst part was that this was the best source of information I’d managed to discover in over a hundred long hours of searching.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Interlude—Parts

K
VOTHE HELD UP HIS hand, and Chronicler lifted his pen from the paper.

“Let’s pause there for a moment,” Kvothe said, nodding toward the window. “I can see Cob coming down the road.”

Kvothe stood and brushed off the front of his apron. “Might I suggest the two of you take a moment to compose yourselves?” He nodded to Chronicler. “You look like you’ve just been doing something you shouldn’t.”

Kvothe walked calmly to stand behind the bar. “Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. Chronicler, you are bored, waiting for work. That is why your writing gear is out. You wish you weren’t stuck without a horse in this nowhere town. But you are, and you’re going to make the best of it.”

Bast grinned. “Ooh! Give me something, too!”

“Play to your strengths, Bast.” Kvothe said. “You’re drinking with our only customer because you’re a shiftless layabout nobody would ever dream of asking for help in the fields.”

Bast grinned eagerly. “Am I bored too?”

“Of course you are, Bast. What else is there to be?” He folded the linen cloth and lay it on the bar. “I, on the other hand, am too busy to be bored. I am bustling about, tending to the hundred small tasks that keep the inn running smoothly.”

He looked at the two of them. “Chronicler, slouch back in your chair. Bast, if you can’t stop grinning, at least start telling our friend the story about the three priests and the miller’s daughter.”

Bast’s grin widened. “That’s a good one.”

“Everyone have their parts?” Kvothe picked up the cloth from the bar and walked through the doorway into the kitchen, saying, “Enter Old Cob. Stage left.”

There was the thump of feet on the wooden landing, then Old Cob stomped irritably into the Waystone Inn. He glanced past the table where Bast was grinning and making gestures to accompany some story, then made his way to the bar. “Hello? You in there, Kote?”

After a second the innkeeper came bustling in from the kitchen, drying his wet hands on his apron. “Hello there, Cob. What can I do for you?”

“Graham sent the little Owens boy to fetch me,” Cob said, irritated. “You have any idea why I’m here instead of haulin’ oats?”

Kote shook his head. “I thought he was bringing in the Murrions’ wheat today.”

“Damn foolishness,” Cob muttered. “We’re in for rain tonight, and I’m standing here with dry oats stacked in my field.”

“Since you’re here anyway,” the innkeeper said hopefully. “Can I interest you in some cider? Pressed it fresh this morning.”

Some of the irritation faded from the old man’s weathered face. “Since I’m waiting anyway,” he said. “Mug of cider would be proper nice.”

Kote went into the back room and returned with a pottery jug. There was the sound of more feet on the landing outside and Graham came through the door with Jake, Carter, and the smith’s prentice all in tow.

Cob turned to glare at them. “What’s so damned important it’s worth hauling me into town this time of morning?” he demanded. “Daylight’s burning, a—”

There was a sudden burst of laugher from the table where Chronicler and Bast sat. Everyone turned to see Chronicler flushing a bright red, laughing and covering his mouth with one hand. Bast was laughing too, pounding at the table.

Graham led the others to the bar. “I found out Carter and the boy are helping the Orrisons take their sheep to market,” he said. “Off to Baedn, wasn’t it?”

Carter and the smith’s prentice nodded.

“I see.” Old Cob looked down at his hands. “You’ll be missing his funeral then.”

Carter nodded solemnly, but Aaron’s expression went stricken. He looked from face to face, but everyone else was standing very still, watching the old farmer by the bar.

“Good,” Cob said at last, looking up at Graham. “It’s good you fetched us in.” He saw the boy’s face and snorted. “You look like you just killed your cat, boy. Mutton goes to market. Shep knew that. He wouldn’t think one jot less of you for doing what needs doing.”

He reached up to pat the smith’s prentice on the back. “We’ll all have a drink together to send ’im off proper. That’s the important thing. What happens in the church tonight is just a bunch of priestly speechifying. We know how to say good-bye better than that.” He looked behind the bar. “Bring us out some of his favorite, Kote.”

The innkeeper was already moving, gathering wooden mugs and filling them with a dark brown beer from a smaller keg behind the bar.

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