The Wise Man's Fear tkc-2, page 102
part #2 of The Kingkiller Chronicle Series
“In my room,” I said. “I did not know I would need it.”
“Run fetch it,” she said. “Then meet me at the stone hill.”
“Shehyn,” I said. Urgent imploring. “I don’t know where that is. I don’t know anything about the stone trial.”
Surprise. “Vashet never told you?” Disbelief.
I shook my head. Sincere apology. “We were focused on other things.”
Exasperation. “It is simple enough,” she said. “First you will recite Saicere’s Atas for all gathered. Then you will climb the hill. At the first stone, you will fight one from the school who is ranked of the first stone. If you win, you will continue to climb and fight someone of the second stone.”
Shehyn looked at me. “In your case, this is a formality. Occasionally a student enters the school with exceptional talent. Vashet was one such as this, and she gained the second stone at her first trial.” Blunt honesty. “You are not such a one. Your Ketan is still poor, and you cannot expect to gain even the first stone. The stone hill is east of the baths.” She flicked her hand at me: Hurry.
There was a crowd gathered at the foot of the stone hill by the time I arrived, more than a hundred people. Grey homespun and muted colors vastly outnumbered mercenary red, and the low murmur of the crowd’s conversation was audible from a distance.
The hill itself wasn’t particularly high, nor was it steep. But the path to the top cut back and forth in a series of switchbacks. At each corner there was a wide, flat space with a large block of grey stone. There were four corners, four stones, and four red-shirted mercenaries. At the top of the hill stood a tall greystone, familiar as a friend. Beside that stood a small figure in blinding white.
As I came closer, I caught a smell drifting on the breeze: toasted chestnuts. Only then did I relax. This was pageantry of a sort. While “stone trial” had an intimidating sound to it, I doubted very much that I was going to be brutalized in front of a milling audience while someone sold roasted nuts.
I entered the crowd and approached the hill. I could see it was Shehyn next to the greystone. I also recognized the heart-shaped face and long, hanging braid of Penthe at the third stone.
The crowd parted gently as I walked to the foot of the hill. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blood-red figure rushing toward me. Alarmed, I turned and saw it was none other than Tempi. He hurried toward me, gesturing a broad enthusiastic greeting.
I fought the urge to smile and shout his name, settling instead on a gesture of joyful excitement.
He came to stand directly in front of me, gripping me by my shoulder and jostling me around playfully, as if congratulating me. But his eyes were intense. Close to his chest his hand said, deception where only I could see. “Listen,” he spoke quickly under his breath. “You cannot win this fight.”
“Don’t worry.” Reassurance. “Shehyn thinks the same, but I might surprise you.”
Tempi’s grip on my shoulder grew painfully tight. “Listen,” he hissed. “Look who is at the first stone.”
I looked over his shoulder. It was Carceret. Her eyes were like knives.
“She is full of rage,” Tempi said quietly, gesturing fond affection for the crowd to see. “As if your admittance to the school was not enough, you have been given her mother’s sword.”
That piece of news knocked the wind out of me. My mind flickered to the final piece of the Atas. “Larel was Carceret’s mother?” I asked.
Tempi ran his right hand affectionately through my hair. “Yes. She is enraged past reason. I fear she would gladly cripple you, even if it means being thrown from the school.”
I nodded seriously.
“She will try to disarm you. Be wary of it. Do not grapple. If she catches you with Sleeping Bear or Circling Hands, submit quickly. Shout it if you must. If you hesitate or try to break away, she will shatter your arm or pull it from your shoulder. I heard her say this to her sister not an hour ago.”
Suddenly, Tempi stepped away from me and gestured deferential respect.
I felt a tapping at my arm and turned to see Magwyn’s wrinkled face. “Come,” she said with quiet authority. “It is time.”
I fell into step behind her. As we walked, everyone in the crowd gestured some manner of respect toward her. Magwyn led me to the beginning of the path. There was a block of grey stone, slightly taller than my knee and identical to the others at each corner of the path.
The old woman gestured for me to climb up onto the stone. I looked out over the group of Adem and had an unprecedented moment of stage fright.
Bending a bit, I spoke softly to Magwyn. “Is it appropriate for me to raise my voice when reciting this?” I asked her nervously. “I do not mean to be offensive, but if I do not, those in the back will not be able to hear.”
Magwyn smiled at me for the first time, her wrinkled face suddenly sweet. She patted my hand. “No one will be offended at a loud voice here,” she said, gesturing considerate moderation. “Give.”
I unbuckled Saicere and handed it over. Then Magwyn urged me onto the stone.
I recited the Atas while Magwyn watched. Though I was confident of my memory, it was still nerve-wracking. I wondered what would happen if I skipped an owner or misplaced a name.
It took the better part of an hour before I was done, the audience of Adem listening with an almost eerie quiet. When I finished, Magwyn offered her hand, helping me down from the stone as if I were a lady descending from a carriage. Then she gestured up the hill.
I wiped the sweat from my hand and gripped the wooden hilt of my dueling sword as I started up the path. Carceret’s reds were strapped tightly across her long arms and broad shoulders. The leather straps she used were wider and thicker than Tempi’s. They looked to be a brighter red, too, and I wonder if she had dyed them especially for today. As I came closer, I saw she had the fading remains of a black eye.
Once she saw I was watching, Carceret tossed her wooden sword away in a slow, deliberate motion. She gestured disdain broadly enough so they could see it in the ha’penny seats at the back of the crowd.
There was a murmur from the crowd and I stopped walking, uncertain what to do. After a moment’s thought, I lay my own training sword down by the side of the path and continued to walk.
Carceret waited in the center of a flat, grassy circle about thirty feet across. The ground was soft here, so I wouldn’t ordinarily worry about being thrown. Ordinarily. Vashet had taught me the difference between throwing someone to the ground and throwing someone at the ground. The first was what you did during a polite bout. The second was what you would use in a true fight where the intention was to maim or kill your opponent.
Before I came too close, I fell into the now-familiar fighter’s crouch. I raised my hands, bent my knees, and fought the urge to rise up onto the balls of my feet, knowing I would feel quicker, and ruin my balance as a result. I took a deep, steadying breath and slowly moved toward her.
Carceret fell into a similar crouch, and just as I was coming to the outside limits of her reach, she made a feint toward me. It was only a slight twitch of the hand and shoulder, but, anxious as I was, I fell for it wholeheartedly and skittered away like a startled rabbit.
Carceret lowered her hands and stood up straight, abandoning her fighting crouch. Amusement, she gestured broadly, invitation. Then she beckoned with both hands. I heard a few pieces of laughter drift up from the crowd below.
Humiliating as her attitude was, I was eager to take advantage of her lowered guard. I moved forward and made a cautious attempt at Hands like Knives. Too cautious, and she stepped away from it without even needing to lift her hands.
I knew I was outclassed as a fighter. That meant my only hope was to play on her already hot emotions. If I could infuriate her, she might make mistakes. If she made mistakes, I might be able to win. “First came Chael,” I said, giving her my widest, most barbaric smile.
Carceret took a half step closer. “I am going to crush your pretty hands,” she hissed in perfect Aturan. As she spoke she reached out and made a vicious gripping motion at me.
She was trying to scare me, make me recoil and lose my balance. And honestly, the raw venom in her voice made me want to do just that.
But I was ready. I resisted my reflex to pull back. In doing so I froze for a moment, neither retreating nor advancing.
Of course, this is what Carceret was truly waiting for, a half-moment’s hesitation as I fought the urge to flee. She closed on me in a single easy step and caught my wrist, her hand tight as a band of iron.
Without thinking, I used Celean’s curious two-handed version of Break Lion. Perfect for a small girl struggling against a grown man, or a hopelessly outclassed musician trying to escape an Adem mercenary.
I regained control of my hand, and the unorthodox movement startled Carceret ever so slightly. I took advantage of it and struck out quickly with Sowing Barley, snapping my knuckles hard against the meat of her inner bicep.
It wasn’t a hard punch, I was too close for that. But if I managed to hit the nerve properly, the blow would numb her hand. This wouldn’t just make her weak on her left side, but it would make all the two-handed motions of the Ketan more difficult. A significant advantage.
Since I was still so close, I immediately followed Sowing Barley with Turn Millstone, giving her a short, firm push to knock her off balance. I managed to get both hands on her, and even pushed her backward by perhaps four inches, but Carceret came nowhere near to losing her balance.
Then I saw her eyes. I’d thought she’d been angry before, but it was nothing compared to now. Now I’d managed to actually strike her. Not just once, but twice. A barbarian with less than two months of training had struck her twice, while everyone in the school looked on.
I cannot describe how she looked. And even if I could, it would not impress upon you the truth of things, as her face was still almost entirely impassive. Instead let me say this. I have never seen anyone so furious in my entire life. Not Ambrose. Not Hemme. Not Denna when I criticized her song or the Maer when I defied him. Those angers were pale candles compared to the forge fire burning in Carceret’s eyes.
But even in the full flower of her fury, Carceret was perfectly in control. She didn’t lash out wildly or snarl at me. She kept her words inside her, burning them like fuel.
I couldn’t win this fight. But my hands moved automatically, trained by hundreds of hours of practice to take advantage of her nearness. I stepped forward and tried to grab hold of her for Thunder Upward. Her hands snapped out, brushing the attack away. Then she lashed out with Bargeman at the Dock.
I don’t think she expected it to connect. A more competent opponent would have avoided or blocked it. But I had let myself get slightly wrongfooted, so I was off balance, so I was slow, so her foot caught me in the stomach and pushed.
Bargeman at the Dock isn’t a quick kick meant to break bones. It is a kick that shoves the opponent off balance. As I was already off balance, it pushed me right off my feet. I landed jarringly on my back, then rolled to a stop in a messy tangle of limbs.
Now some might say that I had taken a bad fall and was obviously too stupefied to find my feet and continue the fight. Others might say that while it was messy, the fall wasn’t quite as hard as all that, and I had certainly found my feet after worse.
Personally, I think the line between being stupefied and being wise is sometimes very thin. How thin, I suppose, I will leave to you to decide.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SEVEN
Anger
“What were you thinking?” Tempi demanded. Disappointment. Fierce chastisement. “What fool sets his sword aside?”
“She threw her sword away first!” I protested.
“Only to lure you in,” Tempi said. “Only as a trap.”
I was buckling Caesura’s scabbard so the hilt hung over my shoulder. There hadn’t been any particular ceremony after I had lost. Magwyn simply returned my sword and smiled at me, patting my hand in a comforting way.
I watched the crowd slowly dispersing below, and gestured polite disbelief to Tempi. “Should I have kept my sword when she was unarmed?”
“Yes!” Absolute agreement. “She is five times the fighter you are. You might have had a chance if you had kept your sword!”
“Tempi is right,” I heard Shehyn’s voice behind me. “Knowing your enemy is in keeping with the Lethani. Once a fight is inevitable, a clever fighter takes any advantage.” I turned and saw her coming down the path. Penthe walked beside her.
I gestured polite certainty. “If I had kept my sword and won, people would have thought Carceret was a fool and resented me for gaining a rank I did not deserve. And if I had kept my sword and lost, it would have been humiliating. Neither reflects well on me.” I looked back and forth between Shehyn and Tempi. “Am I wrong in this?”
“You are not wrong in this.” Shehyn said. “But neither is Tempi wrong.”
“Victory is always to be sought,” Tempi said. Firm.
Shehyn turned to face him. “Success is key,” she said. “Victory is not always needed to succeed.”
Tempi gestured respectful disagreement and opened his mouth to respond, but Penthe spoke first, cutting him off. “Kvothe, are you hurt from your fall?”
“Not badly,” I said, moving my back gingerly. “A few bruises, perhaps.”
“Do you have anything to put on them?”
I shook my head.
Penthe stepped forward and took hold of my arm. “I have things at my house. We will leave these two to discuss the Lethani. Someone should tend to your hurts.” She held my arm with her left hand, making her statement curiously empty of any emotional content.
“Of course,” Shehyn said after a moment, and Tempi gestured a hasty agreement. But Penthe was already leading me firmly down the hill.
We walked for a quarter mile or so, Penthe holding my arm lightly.
Eventually she spoke in her lightly accented Aturan. “Are you bruised badly enough to need a salve?” she asked.
“Not really,” I admitted.
“I thought not,” she said. “But after I have lost a fight, I rarely wish to have people tell me how I lost it.” She flashed me a small, secret smile.
I smiled back.
We continued to walk, and Penthe kept hold of my arm, subtly guiding us through a grove of trees, then up a steep path carved through a small bluff. Eventually we came to a secluded dell that had a carpet of wild papavlerflower blossoming among the grass. Their loose, blood-red petals were almost exactly the same color as Penthe’s mercenary reds.
“Vashet told me barbarians have strange rituals with your sex,” Penthe said. “She told me if I wanted to bed you, I should bring you to some flowers.” She gestured around. “These are the best I could find in this season.” She looked up at me expectantly.
“Ah,” I said. “I expect Vashet was having a bit of a joke with you. Or perhaps a joke with me.” Penthe frowned and I hurried to continue. “But it is true that among the barbarians there are many rituals that lead up to sex. It is somewhat more complicated there.”
Penthe gestured sullen irritation. “I should not be surprised,” she said. “Everyone tells stories about the barbarians. Some of it is training, so I can move well among you.” Wry however. “Since I have not been out among them yet, they also tell stories to tease me.”
“What sort of stories?” I asked, thinking of what I had heard about the Adem and the Lethani before I had met Tempi.
She shrugged, slight embarrassment. “It is foolishness. They say all the barbarian men are huge.” She gestured far above her head, showing a height of more than seven feet. “Naden told me he went to a town where the barbarians ate a soup made of dirt. They say the barbarians never bathe. They say barbarians drink their own urine, believing it will help them live longer.” She shook her head, laughing and gesturing horrified amusement.
“Are you saying,” I asked slowly, “that you don’t drink yours?”
Penthe froze midlaugh and looked at me, her face and hands showing a confused, apologetic mix of embarrassment, disgust, and disbelief. It was such a bizarre tangle of emotions I couldn’t help but laugh, and I saw her relax when she realized the joke.
“I understand,” I said. “We tell similar stories about the Adem.”
Her eyes lit up. “You must tell me as I told you. It is fair.”
Given Tempi’s reaction when I’d told him of the word-fire and Lethani, I decided to share something else. “They say those who take the red never have sex. They say you take that energy and put it into your Ketan, and that is why you are such good fighters.”
Penthe laughed hard at that. “I would have never made the third stone if that were the case,” she said. Wry amusement. “If keeping from sex gave me my fighting, there would be days I could not make even a fist.”
I felt my pulse quicken a bit at that.
“Still,” she said. “I can see where that story comes from. They must think we have no sex because no Adem would bed a barbarian.”
“Ah,” I said, somewhat disappointed. “Why have you brought me to the flowers then?”
“You are now of Ademre,” she said easily. “I expect many will approach you now. You have a sweet face, and it is hard not to be curious about your anger.”
Penthe paused and glanced significantly downward. “That is unless you are diseased?”
I blushed at this. “What? No! Of course not!”
“Are you certain?”
“I have studied at the Medica,” I said somewhat stiffly. “The greatest school of medicine in all the world. I know all about the diseases a person might catch, how to spot them and how to treat them.”
Penthe gave me a skeptical look. “I do not question you in particular. But it is well known that barbarians are quite frequently diseased in their sex.”
I shook my head. “This is just another foolish story. I assure you the barbarians are no more diseased than the Adem. In fact, I expect we may be less.”
She shook her head, her eyes serious. “No. You are wrong in this. Of a hundred barbarians, how many would you say were so afflicted?”
