“Illien. I like that thought,” my mother said. “Kings coming from miles away to hear my little Kvothe play.” “His music stopping barroom brawls and border wars.” Ben smiled. “The wild women in his lap,” my father enthused, “laying their breasts on his head.” There was a moment of stunned silence. Then my mother spoke slowly, with an edge to her voice. “I think you mean ‘wild beasts laying their heads in his lap.’”
