The Wise Man's Fear tkc-2, page 80
part #2 of The Kingkiller Chronicle Series
I sat for a long moment, as if deeply considering something. When I finally did speak, my voice was hushed and hesitant. “Lady, might I write a song for you?” I gave her a sheepish smile.
Her smile was like the moon through the clouds. She clapped her hands and threw herself onto me with a kittenish delight, peppering me with kisses. Only fear that my lute might be broken kept me from properly enjoying the experience.
Felurian pulled away and sat very still. I tried a couple of chord combinations, then stilled my hands and looked up at her. “I will call it ‘The Lay of Felurian.’ ” She blushed a bit and looked at me through lowered eyes, her expression bashful and brazen.
All immodest boasting aside, I write a fine song when I set my hand to it, and my skills had recently been sharpened in the Maer’s employ. I am not the best, but I am one of the best. Given enough time, a worthy subject, and the proper motivation I daresay I could write a song nearly as well as Illien. Nearly.
Closing my eyes, I coaxed sweet strains from my lute. My fingers flew, and I captured the music of wind in the branches, of rustling leaves.
Then I looked to the back of my mind where the mad, chattering part of me had been composing a song to Felurian all this while. I brushed the strings more lightly and began to sing.
Flashing moon silver, midnight blue her eyes
The lids were subtle-colored butterflies.
Her hair swayed, a dark scythe swinging
Through the trees with the wind singing.
Felurian! O Lady Fair,
Blessed be your forest glade.
Your breath is light upon the air.
Your hair is shadow-dappled shade.
Felurian grew still as I sang. Toward the end of the chorus I could hardly tell if she was breathing. A few of the butterflies that had been frightened away by our earlier conflict came dancing back to us. One of them landed on Felurian’s hand, brushing its wings once, twice, as if curious why its mistress was so sudden still. I turned my eyes to my lute again and chose notes like raindrops licking the leaves of trees.
She danced in dancing shadows candle cast
She held my eyes, my face, my form, full fast.
Her smile a snare ten times as strong
As legendary faerie song.
O Lady Fair! Felurian,
Your kiss is honeysuckle sweet.
I pity any other man
Unknown to you and incomplete.
I watched her from the corner of my eye. She sat as if listening with her entire body. Her eyes were wide. She’d raised one hand to her mouth, upsetting the butterfly resting there, while the other pressed against her chest as she drew a slow breath. This is what I had wanted, but I regretted it nonetheless.
I bent over my lute and danced my fingers across the strings. I wove chords like water over river stones, like a soft breath against the ear. Then I steeled myself and sang:
Her eyes were of the bluest black
Like night sky with the clouds blown back
Her skills in love—
I stuttered my fingers on the strings, pausing for just a moment as if unsure of something. I saw Felurian wake halfway from her reverie and continued:
Her skills in love they do suffice
In close embrace men find her nice.
Felurian! O Mistress Bright,
Your touch more sought than silver
I br—
“What?” Even though I was expecting the interruption, the ice in her voice startled me into a jangle of notes and sent several butterflies into flight. I took a breath, assumed my most innocent expression, and looked up.
Her expression was a storm of rage and disbelief. “nice?” I felt the blood drain from my face at her tone. Her voice was still round and gentle as a distant flute. But that meant nothing. Distant thunder doesn’t drub the ears, you feel it prowling through your chest. The quiet of her voice moved through me in that distant-thunder way. “nice?”
“It was nice,” I said to mollify her, my air of innocence only half affected.
She opened her mouth as if she would speak, then closed her mouth. Her eyes flashed pure fury.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have known better than to try.” I pitched my voice somewhere between broken spirit and beaten child. I lowered my hands from the lute strings.
Some of the fire left her, but when she found her voice it was tight and dangerous. “my skills ‘suffice’?” She hardly seemed able to force out the last word. Her mouth formed a thin, outraged line.
I exploded, my voice a roll of thunder. “How the hell am I supposed to know? It’s not like I’ve ever done this sort of thing before!”
She reeled back at the vehemence of my words, some of the anger draining out of her. “what is it you mean?” she trailed off, confused.
“This!” I gestured awkwardly at myself, at her, at the cushions and the pavilion around us, as if that explained everything.
The last of the anger left her as I saw realization begin to dawn, “you . . .”
“No,” I looked down, my face growing hot. “I have never been with a woman.” Then I straightened and looked her in the eye as if challenging her to make an issue out of it.
Felurian was still for a moment, then her mouth turned up into a wry smile. “you tell me a faerie story, my kvothe.”
I felt my face go grim. I don’t mind being called a liar. I am. I am a marvelous liar. But I hate being called a liar when I’m telling the perfect truth.
Regardless of its motivation, my expression seemed to convince her. “but you were like a gentle summer storm.” She made a fluttering gesture with a hand. “you were a dancer fresh upon the field.” Her eyes glittered wickedly.
I tucked that comment away for later ego-polishing purposes. My reply was slightly wounded, “Please, I’m not a complete rube. I’ve read several books—”
Felurian giggled like a brook. “you learned from books.” She looked at me as if she couldn’t decide whether or not to take me seriously. She laughed, stopped, then laughed again. I didn’t know if I should be offended.
“You were rather good too,” I said hurriedly, knowing I sounded like the last dinner guest to compliment her on a salad. “As a matter of fact, I’ve read—”
“books? books! you compare me with books!” Her anger crashed over me. Then without even pausing for breath, Felurian laughed again, high and delighted. Her laugh was wild as a fox’s cry, clear and sharp as morning birdsong. It was no human sound.
I put on my innocent face. “Isn’t it always like this?” I kept my expression calm while inwardly I braced myself for another outburst.
She simply sat. “I am Felurian.”
It wasn’t a simple stating of a name. It was a declaration. It was a proud flag flying.
I held her eyes for a moment, then sighed and dropped my gaze to my lute. “I’m sorry about the song. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“it was more lovely than the setting sun,” she protested, sounding close to tears. “but . . . nice?” The word seemed bitter to her.
I set my lute back into its case. “I’m sorry, I can’t fix it without some basis for comparison. . . .” I sighed. “Pity, it was a good song. They would have sung it for a thousand years.” My voice was thick with regret.
Felurian’s expression brightened as if with an idea, then her eyes narrowed into slits. She looked at me as if she was trying to read something written on the inside of my skull.
She knew. She knew I was holding the unfinished song as ransom. The unspoken messages were clear: Unless I leave I can never finish the song. Unless I leave no one will ever hear these beautiful words I have made for you. Unless I leave and taste the fruits mortal women have to offer, I’ll never know how skilled you truly are.
There, amid the cushions, under the eternal twilight sky, Felurian and I stared at each other. She held a butterfly, and my hand rested on the smooth wood of my lute. Two armored knights eyeing each other across a bloody field could not have matched the intensity of our stare.
Felurian spoke slowly, gauging my response. “if you go, will you finish it?” I tried to look surprised, but I wasn’t fooling her. I nodded. “will you come back to me and sing it?”
My surprise became genuine. I hadn’t considered her asking for that. I knew there would be no leaving the second time. I hesitated, but only for a barest moment. Half a loaf is better than none. I nodded.
“promise?” I nodded again. “promise with kisses?” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, like a flower basking in the sun.
Life is too short to refuse offers like that. I moved toward her, drew her naked body toward my own, and kissed her as well as my limited practice would allow. It seemed to be good enough.
As I pulled away she looked up at me and sighed. “your kisses are like snowflakes on my lips.” She lay back on the cushions, head resting on her arm. Her free hand brushed my cheek.
To say she was lovely is such an understatement I cannot begin to repair it. I realized that over the last several minutes she hadn’t been trying to make me desire her, at least not in any supernatural sense.
She brushed her lips lightly over the palm of my hand and released it. Then she lay still, watching me intently.
I was flattered. To this day I know of only one answer to a question so politely phrased. I bent to kiss her. And laughing, she took me in her arms.
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
Magic of a Different Kind
By this point in my life, I’d earned myself a modest reputation.
No, that’s not entirely true. It’s better to say that I had built myself a reputation. I’d crafted it deliberately. I’d cultivated it.
Three-quarters of the stories folk told about me at the University were ridiculous rumors I’d started myself. I spoke eight languages. I could see in the dark. When I was three days old, my mother hung me in a basket from a rowan tree by the light of the full moon. That night a faerie laid a powerful charm on me to always keep me safe. It turned my eyes from blue to leafy green.
I knew how stories worked, you see. Nobody believed that I’d traded a cupped handful of my own fresh blood to a demon in exchange for an Alar like a blade of Ramston steel. But still, I was the highest ranked duelist in Dal’s class. On a good day, I could beat any two of them together.
That thread of truth wove through the story, gave it strength. So even though you might not believe it, you might tell it to a wide-eyed first term student with a drink in him, just to watch his face, just for fun. And if you’d had a drink or three yourself, you might begin to wonder. . . .
And so the stories spread. And so, around the University at least, my tiny reputation grew.
There were a few true stories as well. Pieces of my reputation I’d honestly earned. I had rescued Fela from a blazing inferno. I had been whipped in front of a crowd and refused to bleed. I’d called the wind and broken Ambrose’s arm. . . .
Still, I knew my reputation was a coat spun out of cobweb. It was storybook nonsense. There were no demons out there, bargaining for blood. There were no helpful faeries granting magic charms. And though I might pretend, I knew I was no Taborlin the Great.
These were my thoughts when I woke, tangled in Felurian’s arms. I lay quietly among the cushions for a time, her head resting lightly on my chest, her leg thrown loosely over mine. Looking up through the trees at the twilight sky, I realized I could not recognize the stars. They were brighter than those in the mortal sky, their patterns unfamiliar.
It was only then that I realized my life had taken a step in a new direction. Up until now, I had been playing at being a young Taborlin. I had spun lies around myself, pretending to be a storybook hero.
But now there was no sense pretending. What I’d done was truly worth a story, every bit as odd and wonderful as any tale of Taborlin himself. I’d followed Felurian into the Fae, then bested her with magics I couldn’t explain, let alone control.
I felt different now. More solid somehow. Not older, exactly. Not wiser. But I knew things that I’d never known before. I knew the Fae were real. I knew their magic was real. Felurian could break a man’s mind with a kiss. Her voice could tug me like a puppet by its strings. There were things I could learn here. Strange things. Powerful things. Secret things. Things I might never ever have a chance to learn again.
I gently freed myself from Felurian’s sleeping embrace and walked down to the nearby pool. I splashed water on my face and scooped up several handfuls to drink.
I looked through the plants that grew at the water’s edge. I picked some leaves and chewed them as I considered how I might approach the subject with Felurian. The mint sweetened my breath.
When I returned to the pavilion, Felurian was standing there, brushing pale fingers through her long dark hair.
I handed her a violet, its color dark as her eyes. She smiled at me and ate it.
I decided to approach the subject gently, lest I offend her. “I was wondering,” I said carefully, “if you would be willing to teach me.”
She reached out to touch the side of my face gently. “foolish sweet,” she said fondly. “have not I already begun?”
I felt excitement rise in my chest, amazed that it could be so simple. “Am I ready for my next lesson?” I asked.
Her smile grew wider and she looked me up and down, her eyes going half-lidded and mysterious. “are you?”
I nodded.
“it is good you are eager,” Felurian said, her fluting voice tinged with amusement. “you have some cleverness and natural skill. but there is much to learn.” She looked into my eyes, her delicate face gravely serious. “when you leave to walk among the mortal, I will not have you shame me.”
Felurian took my hand and drew me into the pavilion. She pointed. “sit.”
I sat on a cushion, placing my head level with the smooth expanse of her stomach. Her navel was terribly distracting.
She looked down at me, her expression proud and regal as a queen. “amouen,” she said, spreading the fingers of one hand and making a deliberate gesture. “this we call the hushed hart. an easy lesson to begin, and one I expect you will enjoy.”
Felurian smiled at me then, her eyes old and knowing. And even before she pushed me back against the cushions and began to bite the side of my neck, I realized that she did not intend to teach me magic. Or if she did, it was magic of a different kind.
While it was not the subject I’d hoped to study under her, it’s fair to say that I was not entirely disappointed. Learning lover’s arts from Felurian far outstripped any curriculum offered at the University.
I am not referring to the vigorous sweaty wrestling most men—and alas, most women—think of as love. While sweat and vigor are pleasant parts of it, Felurian brought to my attention the subtler pieces. If I were to go into the world, she said, I would not embarrass her by being an incompetent lover, and so she took care to show me a great many things.
A few of them in her words: The pinioned wrist. The sigh toward the ear. Devouring the neck. Drawing the lips. The kissing of the throat, the navel, and—as Felurian phrased it—the woman’s flower. The breathing kiss. The feather kiss. The climbing kiss. So many different types of kissing. Too many to remember. Almost.
There was drawing water from the well. The fluttering hand. Birdsong at morning. Circling the moon. Playing ivy. The harrowed hare. Just the names would fill a book. But this, I suppose, is not the place for such things. Alas then for the world.
I don’t mean to give the impression that all our hours were spent in dalliance. I was young and Felurian was immortal, but there is only so much two bodies can endure. The rest of the time we amused ourselves in other ways. We swam and ate. I played songs for Felurian, and she danced for me.
I asked Felurian a few careful questions about magic, not wanting to offend her by prying at her secrets. Unfortunately, her answers were not particularly enlightening. Her magic came as naturally as breathing. I might as well have asked a farmer how seeds sprouted. When her answers weren’t hopelessly nonchalant, they were puzzlingly cryptic.
Still, I continued to ask, and she answered as best she could. And occasionally I felt a small spark of understanding.
But most of our time was spent telling stories. We had so little in common that stories were all that we could share.
You might think Felurian and I would be unevenly matched in this regard. She was older than the sky, while I was not yet seventeen.
But Felurian was not the narrative treasure trove you would think. Powerful and clever? Certainly. Energetic and lovely? Absolutely. But storytelling was not among her many gifts.
I, on the other hand, was of the Edema Ruh, and we know all the stories in the world.
So I told her “The Ghost and the Goosegirl.” I told her “Tam and the Tinker’s Spade.” I told her stories of woodcutters and widow’s daughters and the cleverness of orphan boys.
In exchange, Felurian told me manling stories: “The Hand at the Heart of the Pearl,” “The Boy Who Ran Between.” The Fae have their own cast of legendary characters: Mavin the Manshaped, Alavin Allface. Surprisingly, Felurian had never heard of Taborlin the Great or Oren Velciter, but she did know who Illien was. It made me proud that one of the Edema Ruh had gained a place in the stories the Fae tell each other.
I wasn’t blind to the fact that Felurian herself might have the information I was looking for about the Amyr and the Chandrian. How much more enjoyable would it be to learn the truth from her, rather than rooting endlessly through ancient books in dusty rooms?
Unfortunately, Felurian wasn’t the mine of information I’d hoped. She knew stories of the Amyr, but they were thousands of years old.
When I asked her about the more recent Amyr, asking about church knights and the Ciridae with their bloody tattoos, she merely laughed. “there were never any human amyr,” she said, dismissing the idea out of hand. “those you speak of sound like children dressing in their parents’ clothes.”
