The Wise Man's Fear tkc-2, page 104
part #2 of The Kingkiller Chronicle Series
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
“Reshi!” 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. . . .”
Kvothe made a dismissive gesture. “No. Names are the key. Real names. Deep names. And I have been avoiding them for just that reason. My father was a great one for details. He had been asking questions and digging up old stories about the Chandrian for years. I expect he stumbled onto a few of their old names and worked them into his song. . . .”
Understanding washed over Chronicler’s face. “. . . and then rehearsed it again and again.”
The innkeeper gave a faint, fond smile. “Endlessly, if I knew him at all. I have no doubt he and my mother did their solid best to work every tiny burr out of their song before they made it public. They were perfectionists.” He gave a tired sigh. “To the Chandrian, it must have been like someone constantly lighting a signal fire. I expect the only thing that kept them safe for so long was that we were constantly traveling.”
Bast broke in again. “Which is why you shouldn’t say such things, Reshi.”
Kvothe frowned. “I have slept my thousand nights and traveled several thousand miles since then, Bast. It is safe to say them once. With all the hell that’s breaking loose in the world these days you can believe people are telling old stories more often. If the Chandrian are listening for names, I don’t doubt they’ve got a slow din of whispering from Arueh to the Circle Sea.”
Bast’s expression made it clear he was less than reassured.
“Besides,” Kvothe said with a bit of a weary sigh. “It’s good to have them written down. They may prove useful to someone someday.”
“Still Reshi, you should be more careful.”
“What have I been these last years except for careful, Bast?” Kvothe said, his irritation finally bubbling to the surface. “What good has it done me? Besides, if what you say about the Cthaeh is true, then things will end in tears no matter what I do. Isn’t that right?”
Bast opened his mouth, then closed it, obviously at a loss. Then he darted a look toward Chronicler, his eyes pleading for support.
Seeing this, Kvothe turned to look at Chronicler as well, raising an eyebrow curiously.
“I’m sure I don’t know in the least,” Chronicler said, looking down as he opened his satchel and brought out an ink-stained piece of cloth. “Both of you have seen the full extent of my naming prowess: Iron. And that is a fluke by all accounts. Master Namer declared me an utter waste of his time.”
“That sounds familiar,” Kvothe murmured.
Chronicler shrugged. “In my case I took him at his word.”
“Can you remember the excuse he gave you?”
“He had many specific criticisms: I knew too many words. I’d never been hungry. I was too soft. . . .” Chronicler’s hands were busy cleaning the nib of his pen. “I felt he made his overall position clear when he said, ‘Who would have thought a papery little scriv like you could have any iron in him at all?’ ”
Kvothe’s mouth quirked into a sympathetic smile. “Did he really?”
Chronicler shrugged. “He called me a twat, actually. I was trying not to offend the innocent ears of our young friend here.” He nodded at Bast. “From what I can tell, he’s had a rough day.”
Kvothe smiled in full now. “It’s a shame we weren’t ever at the University at the same time.”
Chronicler gave the nib one last rub against the soft cloth and held it up to the fading light from the inn’s window. “Not really,” he said. “You wouldn’t have liked me. I was a papery little twat. And spoiled. And full of myself.”
“And what’s changed since then?” Kvothe asked.
Chronicler blew air through his nose dismissively. “Not much, depending who you ask. But I like to think I’ve had my eyes opened a bit.” He screwed the nib carefully back into his pen.
“And how did that happen, exactly?” Kvothe asked.
Chronicler looked across the table, seeming surprised at the question. “Exactly?” he asked. “Telling a story isn’t what I’m here for.” He tucked the cloth back into his satchel. “In brief, I had a snit and left the University looking for greener pasture. Best thing I ever did. I learned more from a month on the road than I had in three years of classes.”
Kvothe nodded. “Teccam said the same thing: No man is brave that has never walked a hundred miles. If you want to know the truth of who you are, walk until not a person knows your name. Travel is the great leveler, the great teacher, bitter as medicine, crueler than mirror-glass. A long stretch of road will teach you more about yourself than a hundred years of quiet introspection.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY
Wine and Water
Saying my farewells in Haert took an entire day. I shared a meal with Vashet and Tempi and let both of them give me more advice than I needed or desired. Celean cried a bit, and told me she would come visit me when she finally took the red. We bouted one final time, and I suspect she let me win.
Lastly, I spent a pleasant evening with Penthe that turned into a pleasant night and, eventually, into a pleasant late night. I did manage to catch a few hours of sleep in the pale hours before dawn.
I grew up among the Ruh, so I am endlessly amazed how quickly a person can put down roots in a place. Though I had been in Haert less than two months, it was hard to leave.
Still, it felt good to be back on the road again, heading toward Alveron and Denna. It was time I collected my reward for a job well done and delivered an earnest and rather belated apology.
Five days later I was walking one of those long, lonely stretches of road you only find in the low hills of eastern Vintas. I was, as my father used to say, on the edge of the map.
I had only passed one or two travelers all day and not a single inn. The thought of sleeping outdoors wasn’t particularly troubling, but I had been eating from my pockets for a couple days, and a warm meal would have been a welcome thing.
Night had nearly fallen, and I had given up hope of something decent in my stomach when I spotted a line of white smoke trailing into the twilight sky ahead of me. I took it for a farmhouse at first. Then I heard a faint strain of music and my hopes for a bed and a hearth-hot meal began to rise.
But as I came around a curve in the road, I found a surprise better than any roadside inn. Through the trees I saw a tall campfire flickering between two achingly familiar wagons. Men and women lounged about, talking. One strummed a lute, while another tapped a small tabor idly against his leg. Others were pitching a tent between two trees while an older woman set a tripod over the fire.
Troupers. What’s better, I recognized familiar markings on the side of one of the wagons. To me they stood out more brightly than the fire. Those signs meant these were true troupers. My family, the Edema Ruh.
As I stepped from the trees, one of the men gave a shout, and before I could draw breath to speak there were three swords pointing at me. The sudden stillness after the music and chatter was more than slightly unnerving.
A handsome man with a black beard and a silver earring took a slow step forward, never taking the tip of his sword off my eye. “Otto!” he shouted into the woods behind me. “If you’re napping I swear on my mother’s milk I’ll gut you. Who the hell are you?”
The last was directed at me. But before I could respond, a voice came out of the trees. “I’m right here, Alleg, as . . . Who’s that? How in the God’s name did he get past me?”
When they’d drawn their swords on me, I’d raised my hands. It’s a good habit to have when anyone points something sharp at you. Nevertheless I was smiling as I spoke. “Sorry to startle you, Alleg.”
“Save it,” he said coldly. “You have one breath left to tell me why you were sneaking around our camp.”
I had no need to talk, and instead turned so everyone by the fire could see the lute case slung across my back.
The change in Alleg’s attitude was immediate. He relaxed and sheathed his sword. The others followed suit as he smiled and approached me, laughing.
I laughed too. “One family.”
“One family.” He shook my hand and turned toward the fire, shouting, “Best behavior everyone. We have a guest tonight!” There was a low cheer, and everyone went busily back to whatever they had been doing before I arrived.
A thick-bodied man wearing a sword stomped out of the trees. “I’ll be damned if he came past me, Alleg. He’s probably from . . .”
“He’s from our family,” Alleg interjected smoothly.
“Oh,” Otto said, obviously taken aback. He looked at my lute. “Welcome then.”
