The Wise Man's Fear tkc-2, page 83
part #2 of The Kingkiller Chronicle Series
“The hushed hart,” I said.
“in that you give a gift that is a gift to you,” she said archly. “what else?”
“I will also make thousand hands,” I said, watching her expression soften. “And I will show you something new I have thought of all myself. I call it swaying against the wind.”
She crossed her arms and looked away, making a great show of indifference. “new perhaps to you. I doubtless know it by a different name.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But if you will not trade you cannot know.”
“very well,” she conceded with a sigh. “but only because you are quite good at thousand hands.”
Felurian looked up at the slender moon for a moment, then said. “long before the cities of man. before men. before fae. there were those who walked with their eyes open. they knew all the deep names of things.” She paused and looked at me. “do you know what this means?”
“When you know the name of a thing you have mastery over it,” I said.
“no,” she said, startling me with the weight of rebuke in her voice. “mastery was not given. they had the deep knowing of things. not mastery. to swim is not mastery over the water. to eat an apple is not mastery of the apple.” She gave me a sharp look. “do you understand?”
I didn’t. But I nodded anyway, not wanting to upset her or sidetrack the story.
“these old name-knowers moved smoothly through the world. they knew the fox and they knew the hare, and they knew the space between the two.”
She drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “then came those who saw a thing and thought of changing it. they thought in terms of mastery.
“they were shapers. proud dreamers.” She made a conciliatory gesture. “and it was not all bad at first. there were wonders.” Her face lit with memory and her fingers gripped my arm excitedly. “once, sitting on the walls of murella, I ate fruit from a silver tree. it shone, and in the dark you could mark the mouth and eyes of all those who had tasted it!”
“Was Murella in the Fae?”
Felurian frowned. “no. I have said. this was before. there was but one sky. one moon. one world, and in it was murella. and the fruit. and myself, eating it, eyes shining in the dark.”
“How long ago was this?”
She gave a small shrug. “long ago.”
Long ago. Longer than any book of history I had ever seen or even heard of. The Archives had copies of Caluptenian histories that went back two millennia, and none of them held the barest whisper of the things Felurian spoke of.
“Forgive my interruption,” I said as politely as possible, and made as much of a bow to her as I could without going entirely underwater.
Mollified, she continued, “the fruit was but the first of it. the early toddlings of a child. they grew bolder, braver, wild. the old knowers said ‘stop,’ but the shapers refused. they quarreled and fought and forbade the shapers. they argued against mastery of this sort.” Her eyes brightened. “but oh,” she sighed, “the things they made!”
This from a woman weaving me a cloak out of shadow. I couldn’t guess what she might marvel at. “What did they make?”
She gestured widely around us.
“Trees?” I asked, awestruck.
She laughed at my tone. “no. the faen realm.” she waved widely. “wrought according to their will. the greatest of them sewed it from whole cloth. a place where they could do as they desired. and at the end of all their work, each shaper wrought a star to fill their new and empty sky.”
Felurian smiled at me. “then there were two worlds. two skies. two sets of stars.” She held up the smooth stone. “but still one moon. and it all round and cozy in the mortal sky.”
Her smile faded. “but one shaper was greater than the rest. for him the making of a star was not enough. he stretched his will across the world and pulled her from her home.”
Lifting the smooth stone to the sky, Felurian carefully closed one eye. She tilted her head as if trying to fit the curve of the stone into the empty arms of the crescent moon above us. “that was the breaking point. the old knowers realized no talk would ever stop the shapers.” Her hand dropped back into the water. “he stole the moon and with it came the war.”
“Who was it?” I asked.
Her mouth curved into a tiny smile. She hooted: “who? who?”
“Was he of the faen courts?” I prompted gently.
Felurian shook her head, amused. “no. as I said, this was before the fae. the first and greatest of the shapers.”
“What was his name?”
She shook her head. “no calling of names here. I will not speak of that one, though he is shut beyond the doors of stone.”
Before I could ask more questions, Felurian took my hand and nestled the stone between our palms again. “this shaper of the dark and changing eye stretched out his hand against the pure black sky. he pulled the moon, but could not make her stay. so now she moves ’twixt mortal and the fae.”
She gave me a solemn look, so rare a thing on her fair face. “you have your tale. your who and how. there is a final secret now. so all your owlish listening lend.” She brought our joined hands back to the surface of the water. “this is the part on which you must attend.”
Felurian’s eyes were black in the dim light. “the moon has our two worlds beguiled, like parents clutching at a child, pulling at her, to and fro, neither willing to let go.”
She stepped away, and we stood as far apart as we could, the stone gripped in our hands. “when she is torn, half in your sky, you see how far apart we lie.” Felurian reached toward me with her free hand making futile grasping gestures in the empty water. “no matter how we long to kiss, the space between us is not ripe for this.”
Felurian stepped forward and pressed the stone close to my chest. “and when your moon is waxing full, all of faerie feels the pull. she draws us close to you, so bright. and now a visit for a night is easier than walking through a door or stepping off a ship that’s near the shore.” She smiled at me. “ ’twas thus while wandering in the wild, you found Felurian, manling child.”
The thought of an entire world of fae creatures drawn close by the swelling moon was troubling. “And this is true of any fae?”
She shrugged and nodded. “have they the will, and know the way. there are a thousand half-cracked doors that lead between my world and yours.”
“How have I never heard of this? It seems it would be hard to miss, Fae dancing on the mortal grass. . . .”
She laughed. “but has not just this come to pass? the world is wide and time is long, but still you say you heard my song before you saw me singing there, brushing moonlight through my hair.”
I frowned. “Still, it seems I should have seen more signs of those who walk between.”
Felurian shrugged. “most fae are sly and subtle folk who step as soft as chimney smoke. some go among your kind enshaedn, glamoured as a pack mule laden, or wearing gowns to fit a queen.” She gave me a frank look. “we know enough to not be seen.”
She took my hand again. “many of the darker sort would love to use you for their sport. what keeps these from moonlit trespass? iron, fire, mirror-glass. elm and ash and copper knives, solid-hearted farmer’s wives who know the rules of games we play and give us bread to keep away. but worst of all, my people dread the portion of our power we shed when we set foot on mortal earth.”
“We are more trouble than we’re worth,” I admitted, smiling.
Felurian reached out and touched a finger to my mouth. “while she is full you may still laugh, but know there is a darker half.” She spun away to arm’s length, pulling me through the water in a slow spiral. “a clever mortal fears the night without a hint of sweet moonlight.”
She began to draw my hand to her chest, dragging me through the water toward her as she spun. “on such a night, each step you take might catch you in the dark moon’s wake, and pull you all unwitting into fae.” She stopped and gave me a grim look. “where you will have no choice but stay.”
Felurian took a step backward in the water, tugging at me. “and on such unfamiliar ground, how can a mortal help but drown?”
I took another step toward her and found nothing beneath my feet. Felurian’s hand was suddenly no longer clasping mine, and black water closed over my head. Blind and choking, I began to thrash desperately, trying to find my way back to the surface.
After a long, terrifying moment, Felurian’s hands caught me and dragged me into the air as if I weighed no more than a kitten. She brought me close to her face, her dark eyes hard and glittering.
When she spoke her voice was clear. “I do this so you cannot help but hear. a wise man views a moonless night with fear.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE
Close Enough to Touch
Time passed. Felurian took me Dayward to a piece of forest even older and grander than the one that surrounded her twilight glade. There we climbed trees as tall and broad as mountains. In the highest branches, you could feel the vast tree swaying in the wind like a ship on the swelling sea. There, with nothing but the blue sky around us and the slow motion of the tree beneath, Felurian taught me ivy on the oak.
I tried to teach Felurian tak, only to discover she already knew it. She beat me handily, and played a game so lovely Bredon would have wept to look on it.
I learned a bit of the Fae tongue. A small bit. A scattering.
Actually, in the interest of pure honesty, I will admit that I failed miserably in my attempt to learn the Fae language. Felurian was a less than patient teacher, and the language bafflingly complex. My failure went beyond mere incompetence to the point where Felurian actually forbade me from attempting to speak it in her presence.
Overall, I gained a few phrases and a great dollop of humility. Useful things.
Felurian taught me several faen songs. They were harder for me to remember than mortal songs, their melodies slippery and twisting. When I tried to play them on my lute the strings felt strange beneath my fingers, making me fumble and stutter as if I was some country boy who’d never held a lute before. I learned their lyrics by rote, without the least inkling what the words might mean.
Through it all, we continued to work on my shaed. Rather, Felurian worked on it. I asked questions, watched, and tried to avoid feeling like a curious child underfoot in the kitchen. As we grew more comfortable with each other, my questions became more insistent. . . .
“But how?” I asked for the tenth time. “Light hasn’t any weight, any substance. It behaves like a wave. You shouldn’t be able to touch it.”
Felurian had worked her way up from starlight and was wefting moonlight into the shaed. She didn’t look up from her work when she replied, “so many thoughts, my kvothe. you know too much to be happy.”
That sounded uncomfortably like something Elodin would say. I brushed the evasion aside. “You shouldn’t be able—”
She nudged me with her elbow and I saw both her hands were full. “sweet flame,” she said, “bring that to me.” She nodded to a moonbeam that pierced the trees above and touched the ground beside me.
Her voice bore the familiar, subtle tone of command, and without thinking I grabbed the moonbeam as if it were a hanging vine. For a second I felt it against my fingers, cool and ephemeral. Startled, I froze, and suddenly it was an ordinary moonbeam again. I passed my hand through it several times to no effect.
Smiling, Felurian reached out and took hold of it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She touched my cheek with her free hand, then turned her attention to her lap and worked the strand of moonlight into the folds of shadow.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR
The Cthaeh
After Felurian helped me discover what I was capable of, I took a more active hand in the creation of my shaed. Felurian seemed pleased at my progress, but I was frustrated. There were no rules to follow, no facts to remember. Because of this, my quick wit and trouper’s memory were of little use to me, and my progress seemed irritatingly slow.
Eventually, I could touch my shaed without fear of damaging it and change its shape according to my desire. With some practice I could turn it from a short cape to a full hooded mourning cloak or anything in between.
Still, it would be unfair for me to take even a hair of the credit for its creation. Felurian was the one who gathered the shadow, wove it with moon and fire and daylight. My major contribution was the suggestion that it should have numerous little pockets.
After we took the shaed all the way into daylight, I thought our work was done. My suspicions seemed confirmed when we spent a long stretch of time swimming, singing, and otherwise enjoying each other’s company.
But Felurian avoided the topic of the shaed whenever I brought it up. I didn’t mind, as her evasions on the subject were always delightful. Because of this, I had the impression some part of it was left unfinished.
One morning we awoke in an embrace, spent perhaps an hour kissing to arouse our appetites, then fell to our breakfast of fruit and fine white bread with honeycomb and olives.
Then Felurian grew serious and asked me for a piece of iron.
Her request surprised me. Some time ago I had thought to resume a few of my mundane habits. Using the surface of the pool as a mirror, I used my small razor to shave. At first Felurian had seemed pleased by my smooth cheeks and chin, but when I moved to kiss her she pushed me to arm’s length, snorting as if to clear her nose. She told me I reeked of iron and sent me into the forest telling me not to return until I got the bitter stink of it from my face.
So it was with no small amount of curiosity that I dug a piece of broken iron buckle out of my travelsack. I held it out to her nervously. The way you might hand a child a sharp knife. “Why do you need it?” I asked, trying to appear unconcerned.
Felurian said nothing. She held it tightly between her thumb and two forefingers, as if it were a snake struggling to twist around and bite her. Her mouth made a thin line, and her eyes began to brighten from their customary twilight purple to a deep-water blue.
“Can I help?” I asked.
She laughed. Not the light, chiming laugh I had heard so often, but a wild, fierce laugh. “do you want to help truly?” she asked. The hand holding the shard of iron trembled slightly.
I nodded, a little frightened.
“then go.” Her eyes were still changing, brightening to a bluish-white. “I do not need flame now, or songs, or questions.” When I didn’t move she made a shooing motion. “go to the forest. do not wander far, but do not trouble me for the time it takes to love four times.” Her voice had changed slightly too. Though still soft, it had taken on a brittle edge that alarmed me.
I was about to protest when she gave me a terrible look that sent me scampering mindlessly for the trees.
I wandered aimlessly for a while, trying to regain my composure. This was difficult, as I was baby-naked and had been shooed away from the presence of serious magic the way a mother sends a bothersome child away from the cookfire.
Still, I knew I wouldn’t be welcome back in the clearing for some time. So I pointed my face Dayward and set off to explore.
I can’t say why I wandered so far afield that day. Felurian had warned me to stay close, and I knew it to be good advice. Any of a hundred stories from my childhood told me the danger of wandering in the Fae. Even discounting them, the stories Felurian herself had told should have been enough to keep me close to the safety of her twilight grove.
My natural curiosity must take some of the blame, I suppose. But most of it belongs to my bruised pride. Pride and folly, they go together like two tightly grasping hands.
I walked for the better part of an hour as the sky above me slowly brightened into full daylight. I found a path of sorts, but saw nothing living aside from the occasional butterfly or leaping squirrel.
With every step I took, my mood teetered between boredom and anxiety. I was in the Fae, after all. I should be seeing marvelous things. Castles of glass. Burning fountains. Bloodthirsty trow. Barefoot old men, eager to give me advice . . .
The trees gave way to a great grassy plain. All the parts of the Fae Felurian had shown me had been forested. So this seemed a clear sign I was well outside the bounds of where I ought to be.
Still I continued, enjoying the feel of sunlight on my skin after so long in the dim twilight of Felurian’s glade. The trail I followed seemed to be leading to a lone tree standing in the grassy field. I decided I would go as far as that tree, then head back.
However, after walking for a long while I didn’t seem to be coming much closer to the tree. At first I thought this was another oddity of the Fae, but as I continued to make my stubborn way along the path, the truth became clear. The tree was simply larger than I had thought. Much larger and much farther away.
The path did not ultimately lead to the tree. In fact, it curved away from it, avoiding it by more than half a mile. I was considering turning back when a bright flutter of color under the tree’s canopy caught my eye. After a brief struggle, my curiosity won out and I stepped off the path into the long grass.
It was no type of tree I had ever seen before, and I approached it slowly. It resembled a vast spreading willow, with broader leaves of a darker green. The tree had deep, hanging foliage scattered with pale, powder-blue blossoms.
The wind shifted, and as the leaves stirred I smelled a strange, sweet smell. It was like smoke and spice and leather and lemon. It was a compelling smell. Not in the same way that food smells appealing. It didn’t make my mouth water or my stomach growl. Despite this, if I’d seen something sitting on a table that smelled this way, even if it were a lump of stone or a piece of wood, I would have felt compelled to put it in my mouth. Not out of hunger, but from sheer curiosity, much like a child might.
As I stepped closer I was struck with the beauty of the scene: the deep green of the leaves contrasted with the butterflies flitting from branch to branch, sipping from the pale blossoms of the tree. What I had taken at first to be a bed of flowers beneath the tree turned out to be a carpet of butterflies almost completely covering the ground. The scene was so breathtaking I stopped several dozen feet away from the tree’s canopy, not wanting to startle them into flight.
