The Wise Man's Fear tkc-2, page 36
part #2 of The Kingkiller Chronicle Series
Before the warmth of the Amyr’s fire could leave him, the old man tightened his belt and made up his mind to simply walk through ’til morning. Hoping the end of his road might bring him better luck, or at least a meeting with some kinder folk.
So he walked through the center of Faeriniel, and as he did, he saw a circle of great grey stones. Inside that circle was the faint glow of firelight hidden in a well-dug pit. The old man noticed he couldn’t smell a wisp of smoke either, and realized these folk were burning rennel wood, which burns hot and hard, but doesn’t smoke or stink.
Then the old man saw that two of the great shapes were not stones at all. They were wagons. A handful of people huddled round a cookpot in the dim light of the fire.
But the old man didn’t have a shred of hope left, so he kept walking. He was almost past the stones when a voice called out: “Ho there! Who are you, and why do you pass by so quietly at night?”
“I’m nobody,” the old man said. “Just an old beggar, following my road until its end.”
“Why are you out walking instead of settling down to sleep? These roads are not all safe at night,” the voice replied.
“I have no bed,” the old man said. “And tonight I cannot beg or borrow one for all the world.”
“There is one here for you, if you would like it. And a bit of dinner if you’ve a mind to share. No one should walk all day and night besides.” A handsome, bearded man stepped from the concealment of the tall grey stones. He took the old man’s elbow and led him toward the fire, calling ahead, “We have a guest tonight!”
There was a small stir of motion ahead of them, but the night was moonless and their fire was deep in a concealing pit, so the beggar couldn’t see much of what was being done. Curious, he asked, “Why do you hide your fire?”
His host sighed. “Not all folk are filled with love for us. We’re safest by being out of harm’s way. Besides, our fire is small tonight.”
“Why is that?” the beggar asked. “With so many trees, wood should be easy to come by.”
“We went gathering earlier,” the bearded man explained. “But folk called us thieves and shot arrows at us.” He shrugged. “So we make do, and tomorrow will take care of itself.” He shook his head. “But I am talking too much. May I offer you a drink, father?”
“A bit of water, if you can spare it.”
“Nonsense, you will have wine.”
It had been a long time since the beggar had tasted wine, and the thought of it was enough to set his mouth all a-watering. But he knew wine was not the best thing for an empty stomach that had walked all day, so he said, “You are kind, bless you. But water is good enough for me.”
The man at his elbow smiled. “Then have water and wine, each to your desire.” And saying so he brought the beggar to their water barrel.
The old beggar bent and drew up a ladle of water. When it touched his lips it was cool and sweet, but as he drew up the ladle, he couldn’t help but notice the barrel was very nearly empty.
In spite of this, his host urged him, “Take another and wash the dust from your hands and face. I can tell you’ve been on the road for a long and weary while.” So the old beggar took a second dipper of water, and once his hands and face were clean, he felt much refreshed.
Then his host took his elbow again and led him to the fire. “What is your name, father?”
Again the beggar was surprised. It had been years since anyone had cared enough to ask his name. It had been so long he had to stop and think about it for a moment. “Sceop,” he said at last. “I am called Sceop, and you?”
“My name is Terris,” his host said as he made the old man comfortable close to the fire. “This is Silla, my wife, and Wint, our son. This is Shari and Benthum and Lil and Peter and Fent.”
Then Terris brought Sceop wine. Silla gave him a heavy ladle of potato soup, a slice of warm bread, and half a golden summer squash with sweet butter in the bowl of it. It was plain, and there was not a lot, but to Sceop it seemed a feast. And as he ate, Wint kept his cup full of wine, and smiled at him, and sat by his knee and called him grandfather.
The last was too much for the old beggar, and he began to cry softly. Perhaps it was that he was old, and his day had been a long one. Perhaps it was that he was not used to kindness. Perhaps it was the wine. Whatever the reason, tears began to trickle down his face and lose themselves in his deep white beard.
Terris saw this and was quick to ask, “Father, whatever is the matter?”
“I am a silly old man,” Sceop said, more to himself than to the rest of them. “You have been kinder to me than anyone in years, and I am sorry I cannot repay you.”
Terris smiled and laid a hand on the old man’s back. “Would you really like to pay?”
“I cannot. I have nothing to give you.”
Terris’s smile widened. “Sceop. We are the Edema Ruh. The thing we value most is something everyone possesses.” One by one, Sceop saw the faces around the fire look up at him expectantly. Terris said, “You could tell us your story.”
Not knowing what else to do, Sceop began to speak. He told how he had come to Faeriniel. How he had walked from one fire to the next, hoping for charity. At first his voice faltered and his story stumbled, for he had been alone a long time and was not used to talking. But soon his voice became stronger, his words bolder, and as the fire flickered and reflected in his bright blue eyes, his hands danced along with his old dried voice. Even the Edema Ruh, who know all the stories in the world, could do nothing but listen in wonder.
When his story came to an end the troupers stirred as if waking from a deep sleep. For a moment they did nothing but look at each other, then they looked at Sceop.
Terris knew what they were thinking. “Sceop,” he asked gently. “Where were you headed, when I stopped you tonight?”
“I was going to Tinuë,” said Sceop, who was a little embarrassed at how caught up in the story he had become. His face was hot and red, and he felt foolish.
“We are bound for Belenay ourselves,” Terris said. “Would you consider coming with us instead?”
For a moment Sceop’s face lit with hope, but then it fell. “I would be nothing but a burden. Even a beggar has his pride.”
Terris laughed. “You would tell the Edema about pride? We do not ask you out of pity. We ask because you belong in our family, and we would have you tell us a dozen dozen stories in the years to come.”
The beggar shook his head. “My blood is not yours. I am not a part of your family.”
“What does that have to do with the price of butter?” Terris asked. “We Ruh decide who is a part of our family and who is not. You belong with us. Look around and see if I am lying.”
Sceop looked up at the circle of faces and saw what Terris said was true.
And so the old man stayed, and lived with them for many years before they parted ways. Many things he saw, and many stories he told, and everyone was wiser in the end because of it.
This thing happened, though it was years and miles away. I have heard it from the mouths of the Edema Ruh, and thus I know it to be true.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Kernels of Truth
“Is that the end?” Simmon asked after a polite pause. He was on his back, looking up at the stars.
“Yes.”
“It didn’t end the way I thought it would,” he said.
“What did you expect?”
“I was waiting to find out who the beggar really was. I thought as soon as someone was nice to him, he would turn out to be Taborlin the Great. Then he would give them his walking stick and a sack of money and . . . I don’t know. Make something magical happen.”
Wilem spoke up. “He’d say, ‘Whenever you are in danger knock this stick on the ground and say “stick be quick,” ’ and then the stick would whirl around and defend them from whoever was attacking them.” Wilem was lying on his back in the tall grass, too. “I didn’t think he was really an old beggar.”
“Old beggars in stories are never really old beggars,” Simmon said with hint of accusation in his voice. “They’re always a witch or a prince or an angel or something.”
“In real life old beggars are almost always old beggars,” I pointed out. “But I know what kind of story you two are thinking about. Those are stories we tell other people to entertain them. This story is different. It’s one we tell each other.”
“Why tell a story if it’s not entertaining?”
“To help us remember. To teach us—” I made a vague gesture. “Things.”
“Like exaggerated stereotypes?” Simmon asked.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, nettled.
“ ‘Tie him to the wagon and make him pull’?” Simmon made a disgusted noise. “I’d be offended if I didn’t know you.”
“If I didn’t know you,” I said hotly, “I’d be offended. Do you know Aturans used to kill people if they found them living on the road? One of your emperors declared them to be detrimental to the empire. Most were little more than beggars who had lost their homes because of the wars and taxes. Most were simply press-ganged into military service.”
I tugged at the front of my shirt. “But the Edema were especially prized. They hunted us like foxes. For a hundred years Ruh-hunt was a favorite pastime among the Aturan upper crust.”
A profound silence fell. My throat hurt, and I realized I’d been shouting.
Simmon’s voice was muffled. “I didn’t know that.”
I kicked myself mentally and sighed. “I’m sorry Simmon. It’s a . . . It was a long time ago. And it’s not your fault. It’s an old story.”
“It would have to be, to have a reference to the Amyr,” Wilem said, obviously trying to change the subject. “They disbanded what? Three hundred years ago?”
“Still,” I said. “There’s some truth in most stereotypes. A seed they sprouted from.”
“Basil is from Vintas,” Wil said. “And he is odd about certain things. Sleeps with a penny underneath his pillow, that sort of thing.”
“On my way to the University I traveled with a pair of Adem mercenaries,” Simmon said. “They didn’t talk to anyone except each other. And they were restless and fidgety.”
Wilem spoke hesitantly. “I will admit to knowing many Cealdim who take great care to line their boots with silver.”
“Purses,” Simmon corrected him. “Boots are for putting your feet in.” He wiggled a foot to illustrate.
“I know what a boot is,” Wilem said crossly. “I speak this vulgar language better than you do. Boot is what we say, Patu. Money in your purse is for spending. Money you plan to keep is in your boot.”
“Oh,” Simmon said thoughtfully. “I see. Like saving it for a rainy day, I guess.”
“What do you do with money when it rains?” Wilem asked, genuinely puzzled.
“And there’s more to the story than you think,” I interjected quickly before things digressed any further. “The story holds a kernel of truth. If you promise to keep it to yourselves, I will tell you a secret.”
I felt their attention sharpen onto me. “If you ever accept the hospitality of a traveling troupe, and they offer you wine before anything else, they are Edema Ruh. That part of the story is true.” I held up a finger to caution them. “But don’t take the wine.”
“But I like wine,” Simmon said piteously.
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “Your host offers you wine, but you insist on water. It might even turn into a competition of sorts, the host offering more and more grandly, the guest refusing more and more politely. When you do this, they will know you are a friend of the Edema, that you know our ways. They will treat you like family for the night, as opposed to being a mere guest.”
The conversation lulled as they absorbed this piece of information. I looked up at the stars, tracing the familiar constellations in my head. Ewan the hunter, the crucible, the young-again mother, the fire-tongued fox, the broken tower. . . .
“Where would you go if you could go anywhere?” Simmon’s question came out of the blue.
“Across the river,” I said. “Bed.”
“No no,” he protested, “I mean if you could go anywhere in the world.”
“Same answer,” I said. “I’ve been a lot of places. This is where I’ve always wanted to go.”
“But not forever,” Wilem said. “You don’t want to be here forever, do you?”
“That’s what I meant,” Simmon added. “We all want to be here. But none of us want to be here forever.”
“Except Manet,” Wil said.
“Where would you go?” Simmon pursued his point doggedly. “For adventure?”
I thought for a moment, quietly. “I guess I’d to go to the Tahlenwald,” I said.
“Among the Tahl?” Wilem asked. “They’re a primitive nomadic people, from what I’ve heard.”
“Technically speaking, the Edema Ruh are a nomadic people,” I said dryly. “I heard a story once that said the leaders of their tribes aren’t great warriors, they’re singers. Their songs can heal the sick and make the trees dance.” I shrugged. “I’d go there and find out if it was true.”
“I would go to the Faen Court,” Wilem said.
Simmon laughed. “You can’t pick that.”
“Why not?” Wilem said with a quick anger. “If Kvothe can go to a singing tree, I can go into Faen and dance with Embrula . . . with Faen women.”
“The Tahl is real,” Simmon protested. “Faerie stories are for drunks, halfwits, and children.”
“Where would you go?” I asked Simmon to keep him from antagonizing Wilem.
There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice oddly empty of any inflection. “I haven’t been anywhere, really. I only came to the University because after my brothers inherit and my sister gets her dowry there isn’t going to be much for me except the family name.”
“You didn’t want to come here?” I asked, disbelief coloring my voice.
Sim made a noncommittal shrug, and I was about to ask him something else when I was interrupted by the sound of Wilem getting noisily to his feet. “Are we feeling up to the bridge now?”
My head felt remarkably clear. I got to my feet with only a slight wobble. “Fine by me.”
“Just a second.” Simmon started to undo his pants as he moved toward the trees.
As soon as he was out of sight, Wilem leaned close to me. “Don’t ask about his family,” he said quietly. “It is not easy for him to speak about. Worse when he is drunk.”
“What—”
He made a sharp motion with his hand, shaking his head. “Later.”
Simmon bumbled back into the clearing, and the three of us made our silent way back to the road, then over Stonebridge and into the University.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Contradictions
Late next morning, Wil and I made our way to the Archives to meet up with Sim and settle our bets of the night before.
“The problem is his father,” Wilem explained in low tones as we made our way between the grey buildings. “Sim’s father holds a duchy in Atur. Good land, but—”
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “Our little Sim’s father is a duke?”
“Little Sim,” Wilem said dryly, “is three years older than you and two inches taller.”
“Which duchy?” I asked. “And he’s not that much taller.”
“Dalonir,” Wilem said. “But you know how it is. Noble blood from Atur. Small wonder he does not speak of it.”
“Oh come on,” I chided, gesturing to the students filling the street around us. “The University has the most open-minded atmosphere since the church burned Caluptena to the ground.”
“I notice you do not make any loud announcement that you’re Edema Ruh.”
I bristled. “Are you implying I’m embarrassed?”
“I am saying you make no loud announcement,” Wil said calmly, giving me a steady look. “Neither does Simmon. I imagine you both have your reasons.”
Pushing down my irritation, I nodded.
Wilem continued. “Dalonir is in the north of Aturna, so they are reasonably well off. But he has three older brothers and two sisters. The first son inherits. The father bought the second a military commission. The third was placed in the church. Simmon . . .” Wilem trailed off suggestively.
“I have a hard time imagining Sim as a priest,” I admitted. “Or a soldier, come to think of it.”
“And so Sim ends up at the University,” Wilem finished. “His father was hoping he would become a diplomat. Then Sim discovered he liked alchemy and poetry and entered the Arcanum. His father was not entirely pleased.” Wilem gave me a significant look and I gathered he was drastically understating the case.
“Being an arcanist is a remarkable thing!” I protested. “Much more impressive than being a perfumed toady in some court.”
Wilem shrugged. “His tuition is paid. His allowance continues.” He paused to wave at someone on the other side of the courtyard. “But Simmon does not go home. Not for even a brief visit. Sim’s father likes to hunt, fight, drink, and wench. I suspect our gentle, bookish Sim was probably not given the love a clever son deserves.”
Wil and I met up with Sim in our usual reading hole and clarified the details of our drunken wagers. Then we went our separate ways.
An hour later I returned with a modest armload of books. My search had been made considerably easier by the fact that I’d been researching the Amyr since Nina had arrived and given me her scroll.
I knocked softly on the door of the reading hole, then let myself in. Wil and Sim were already sitting at the table.
“Me first,” Simmon said happily. He consulted a list, then pulled a book from his stack. “Page one hundred and fifty two.” He leafed through until he found the page and then began to scan it. “Ah-ha! ‘The girl then gave an account of everything. . . . Blah blah blah . . . And led them to the place where she stumbled onto the pagan frolic.’ ” He looked up, pointing at the page. “See? It says pagan right there.”
