The Name of the Wind (The Kingkiller Chronicle, #1)

by Patrick Rothfuss

“Someone’s parents,” he said, “have been singing entirely the wrong sort of songs.” “Cinder.” A cool voice came from the direction of the fire. His black eyes narrowed in irritation. “What?” he hissed. “You are approaching my displeasure. This one has done nothing. Send him to the soft and painless blanket of his sleep.” The cool voice caught slightly on the last word, as if it were difficult to say. The voice came from a man who sat apart from the rest, wrapped in shadow at the edge of the fire. Though the sky was still bright with sunset and nothing stood between the fire and where he sat, shadow pooled around him like thick oil. The fire snapped and danced, lively and warm, tinged with blue, but no flicker of its light came close to him. The shadow gathered thicker around his head. I could catch a glimpse of a deep cowl like some priests wear, but underneath the shadows were so deep it was like looking down a well at midnight.

PERHAPS THE GREATEST FACULTY our minds possess is the ability to cope with pain. Classic thinking teaches us of the four doors of the mind, which everyone moves through according to their need. First is the door of sleep. Sleep offers us a retreat from the world and all its pain. Sleep marks passing time, giving us distance from the things that have hurt us. When a person is wounded they will often fall unconscious. Similarly, someone who hears traumatic news will often swoon or faint. This is the mind’s way of protecting itself from pain by stepping through the first door. Second is the door of forgetting. Some wounds are too deep to heal, or too deep to heal quickly. In addition, many memories are simply painful, and there is no healing to be done. The saying “time heals all wounds” is false. Time heals most wounds. The rest are hidden behind this door. Third is the door of madness. There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind. Last is the door of death. The final resort. Nothing can hurt us after we are dead, or so we have been told.

I waited a few more minutes just to be sure, then moved back into the street. The feeling of vague unease returned almost immediately. I ignored it while trying to find out where it was coming from. But after five minutes I lost my nerve and turned onto a side street, watching the crowd to see who was following me. No one. It took a nerve-wracking half hour and two more alleys before I finally figured out what it was. It felt strange to be walking with the crowd. Over the last couple years crowds had become a part of the scenery of the city to me. I might use a crowd to hide from a guard or a storekeeper. I might move through a crowd to get where I was going. I might even be going in the same direction as the crowd, but I was never a part of it. I was so used to being ignored, I almost ran from the first merchant who tried to sell me something. Once I knew what was bothering me, the greater part of my uneasiness left. Fear tends to come from ignorance. Once I knew what the problem was, it was just a problem, nothing to fear.

“Now, this pair,” he waved the shoes he held, “are new. They haven’t been walked a mile, and for new shoes like these I charge a talent, maybe a talent and two.” He pointed at my feet. “Those shoes, on the other hand, are used, and I don’t sell used shoes.” He turned his back on me and started to tidy his workbench rather aimlessly, humming to himself. It took me a second to recognize the tune: “Leave the Town, Tinker.” I knew that he was trying to do me a favor, and a few days ago I would have jumped at the opportunity for free shoes. But for some reason I didn’t feel right about it. I quietly gathered up my things and left a pair of copper jots on his stool before I left. Why? Because pride is a strange thing, and because generosity deserves generosity in return. But mostly because it felt like the right thing to do, and that is reason enough.

“I was wondering what you’re doing here,”

7 words to make a person fall in love

“I’ll see you where the roads meet.”

7 words

In spite of these notable lacks, the expanse of grey stone was undoubtedly a door. It simply was. Each copper plate had a hole in its center, and though they were not shaped in the conventional way, they were undoubtedly keyholes. The door sat still as a mountain, quiet and indifferent as the sea on a windless day. This was not a door for opening. It was a door for staying closed.

“If you would ask it of me.”

“So I am left in your debt.”

“But that could lead to unfortunate confusion.”

I’ll give you my name in exchange.

“My offer stands, my name for yours.

“That is unfortunate,” I sighed. “I am no gentleman.”

“The trouble is, when you gift a girl with flowers your choice can be construed so many different ways. A man might give you a rose because he feels you are beautiful, or because he fancies their shade or shape or softness similar to your lips. Roses are expensive, and perhaps he wishes to show through a valuable gift that you are valuable to him.” “You make a good case for roses,” she said. “The fact remains I do not like them. Pick another flower to suit me.” “But what suits? When a man gives you a rose what you see may not be what he intends. You may think he sees you as delicate or frail. Perhaps you dislike a suitor who considers you all sweet and nothing else. Perhaps the stem is thorned, and you assume he thinks you likely to hurt a hand too quick to touch. But if he trims the thorns you might think he has no liking for a thing that can defend itself with sharpness. There’s so many ways a thing can be interpreted,” I said. “What is a careful man to do?”

I stopped walking. “Selas flower.” She stopped and turned to look at me. “All this and you pick a flower I don’t know? What is a selas flower? Why?” “It is a deep red flower that grows on a strong vine. Its leaves are dark and delicate. They grow best in shadowy places, but the flower itself finds stray sunbeams to bloom in.” I looked at her. “That suits you. There is much of you that is both shadow and light. It grows in deep forests, and is rare because only skilled folk can tend one without harming it. It has a wondrous smell and is much sought and seldom found.” I paused and made a point of examining her. “Yes, since I am forced to pick, I would choose selas.” She looked at me. Looked away. “You think too much of me.” I smiled. “Perhaps you think too little of yourself.”

At those times I felt a tension building between us, something almost tangible. When she looked sideways at me with her secret smile, the tilt of her head, the way she almost faced me made me think she must be hoping for me to do . . . something. Put my arm around her? Kiss her? How did one know? How could I be certain? I couldn’t. So I resisted the pull of her. I did not want to presume too much, did not want to offend her or embarrass myself. What’s more, Deoch’s warning had made me uncertain. Perhaps what I felt was nothing more than Denna’s natural charm, her charisma. Like all boys of my age, I was an idiot when it came to women. The difference between me and the others is that I was painfully aware of my ignorance, while others like Simmon bumbled around, making asses of themselves with their clumsy courting. I could think of nothing worse than making some unwelcome advance toward Denna and having her laugh at the awkwardness of my attempt. I hate nothing more than doing things badly.

I should have been bolder and kissed her at the end. I should have been more cautious. I had talked too much. I had said too little.

Attend to me as I draw back the curtain to reveal a long-kept minstrel’s secret. . . . Let’s say you are out at an inn. You listen to me play. You laugh, cry, and generally marvel at my craft. Afterward, you want to show your appreciation, but you don’t have the wherewithal to make a substantial gift of money like some wealthy merchant or noble. So you offer to buy me a drink. I, however, have already had a drink. Or several drinks. Or perhaps I am trying to keep a clear head. Do I refuse your offer? Of course not. That would just waste a valuable opportunity and most likely leave you feeling snubbed. Instead I graciously accept and ask bartender for a Greysdale mead. Or a sounten. Or a particular vintage of white wine. The name of the drink isn’t the important thing. The important thing is that the drink doesn’t really exist. The bartender gives me water. You pay for the drink, I thank you graciously, and everyone walks away happy. Later, the bartender, the tavern, and the musician share your money three ways. Better yet, some sophisticated drinking establishments allow you to keep drinks as a sort of credit for future use. The Eolian was just such a place.

Wilem nodded gravely. “He drinks even more than he talks.” She darted a teasing look at me. “That much?” “Besides,” Simmon chimed in innocently. “He’d sulk for days if he missed a chance to be with you. He’ll be completely worthless to us if you leave him here.” My face grew hot and I had the sudden urge to throttle Sim.

As we left the Eolian, even Deoch looked a little jealous. But as I passed him I caught a glimmer of something other in his eye. Sadness? Pity? I spared no time for it. I was with Denna.

It had the desperate feel of the last warm night of summer. We spoke of everything and nothing, and all the while I could hardly breathe for the nearness of her, the way she moved, the sound of her voice as it touched the autumn air.

I shrugged, buying a moment to think. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I knew every man must compliment her, bury her in flattery more cloying than roses. I took a subtler path. “One of the masters at the University once told me that there were seven words that would make a woman love you.” I made a deliberately casual shrug. “I was just wondering what they were.”

You spoke them to me when first we met. You said, I was just wondering why you’re here.” She made a flippant gesture. “From that moment I was yours.”

“You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while.

“Beer dulls a memory, brand sets it burning, but wine is the best for a sore heart’s yearning.”

She always struck me as being older than her years.” He frowned. “Not old really, more . . .” “Mature?” I suggested. He shook his head. “No. I don’t know a good word for it. It’s like if you look at a great oak tree. You don’t appreciate it because it’s older than the other trees, or because it’s taller. It just has something that other younger trees don’t. Complexity, solidity, significance.”

There is a sort of camaraderie that rarely exists except between men who have fought the same enemies and known the same women.

“‘No fickleness in flight like that of wind or women’s fancy,’”

“There’s more than a little difference there,” Deoch said with a hint of reproach. “A man has a great many opportunities to make his way in the world. You’ve found yourself a place at the University, and if you hadn’t you would still have options.” He looked at me with a knowing eye. “What options are available to a young, pretty girl with no family? No dowry? No home?” He began to hold up fingers. “There’s begging and whoring. Or being some lord’s mistress, which is a different slice off the same loaf.

“To Dyanae,” he said. “Most lovely.” “To Denna, full of delight.” “Young and unbending.” “Bright and fair.” “Ever sought, ever alone.” “So wise and so foolish,” I said. “So merry and so sad.” “Gods of my fathers,” Deoch said reverently. “Keep her always so: unchanging, past my understanding, and safe from harm.”

“Please, we’re all friends here. Feel free to call me by my first name: Master.” He gave a lazy grin

“When folk spoke differently, this used to be called the Quoyan Hayel. Later they called it the Questioning Hall, and students made a game of writing questions on slips of paper and letting them blow about. Rumor had it you could divine your answer by which way the paper left the square.” He pointed to the roads that left gaps between the grey buildings. “Yes. No. Maybe. Elsewhere. Soon.” He shrugged. “It was all a mistake though. Bad translation. They thought Quoyan was an early root of quetentan: question. But it isn’t. Quoyan means ‘wind.’ This is rightly named ‘the House of the Wind.’”

pstscrpt—Please rest assured that I did not notice the disgraceful condition of your bed linens, and did not judge your character thereby.

“I heard you were in some trouble,”

“I would have come, if I’d known.”

Hidden, valuable, much sought and seldom found.”

I thought about the note she had left me, and for a moment I entertained the thought that Sim might be right. I felt a faint hope flicker in my chest, remembering that night we lay atop the greystone. Then I remembered that Denna had been delirious out of her mind that night. And I remembered Denna on Lentaren’s arm. I thought of tall, handsome, wealthy Lentaren and all the other countless men who had something worthwhile to offer her. Something more than a good singing voice and manly bravado.

“You can’t argue your way out of this one! She’s obviously stupid for you. And you’re just plain stupid, so it’s a great match.”

My lute hit the cobblestones bowl first and made a splintering noise. The sound reminded me of the terrible noise my father’s lute had made, crushed beneath my body in a soot-streaked alley in Tarbean. I bent to pick it up and it made a noise like a wounded animal. Ambrose half-turned to look back at me and I saw flickers of amusement play across his face. I opened my mouth to howl, to cry, to curse him. But something other tore from my throat, a word I did not know and could not remember. Then all I could hear was the sound of the wind. It roared into the courtyard like a sudden storm. A nearby carriage slid sideways across the cobblestones, its horses rearing up in panic. Sheet music was torn from someone’s hands to streak around us like strange lightning. I was pushed forward a step. Everyone was pushed by the wind. Everyone but Ambrose, who pinwheeled to the ground as if struck by the hand of God. Then everything was still again. Papers fell, twisting like autumn leaves. People looked around, dazed, their hair tousled and clothes in disarray. Several people staggered as they braced against a storm that was no longer there. My throat hurt. My lute was broken.

“Aerlevsedi,” he said. “Say it.” “What?” Simmon said somewhere in the distant background. “Wind?” “Aerlevsedi,” Elodin repeated patiently, his dark eyes intent upon my face. “Aerlevsedi,” I said numbly. Elodin closed his eyes briefly, peacefully. As if he were trying to catch a faint strain of music wafting gently on a breeze. Unable to see his eyes, I began to drift. I looked back down toward the broken lute in my hands, but before my gaze wandered too far he caught my chin again, tilting my face up. His eyes caught mine. The numbness faded, but the storm still turned inside my head. Then Elodin’s eyes changed. He stopped looking toward me and looked into me. That is the only way I can describe it. He looked deep into me, not into my eyes, but through my eyes. His gaze went into me and settled solidly in my chest, as if he had both his hands inside me, feeling the shape of my lungs, the movement of my heart, the heat of my anger, the pattern of the storm that thundered inside me.

There is a game all children try at some time or another. You fling out your arms and spin round and round, watching as the world blurs. First you are disoriented, but if you continue to spin long enough the world resolves itself, and you are no longer dizzy as you spin with the world blurring around you. Then you stop and the world lurches into regular shape. The dizziness strikes you like a thunderclap, everything lurches, moves. The world tilts around you.

Elodin pointed down the street. “What color is that boy’s shirt?” “Blue.” “What do you mean by blue? Describe it.” I struggled for a moment, failed. “So blue is a name?” “It is a word. Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts. There are seven words that will make a person love you. There are ten words that will break a strong man’s will. But a word is nothing but a painting of a fire. A name is the fire itself.” My head was swimming by this point. “I still don’t understand.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Using words to talk of words is like using a pencil to draw a picture of itself, on itself. Impossible. Confusing. Frustrating.” He lifted his hands high above his head as if stretching for the sky. “But there are other ways to understanding!” he shouted, laughing like a child. He threw both arms to the cloudless arch of sky above us, still laughing. “Look!” he shouted tilting his head back. “Blue! Blue! Blue!”

She went through them like a pen through wet paper. She left them, disappointed. Or, frustrated, they abandoned her, leaving her heartsore, moved to sadness but never as far as tears. There were tears once or twice. But they were not for the men she had lost or the men she had left. They were quiet tears for herself, because there was something inside her that was badly hurt. I couldn’t tell what it was and didn’t dare to ask. Instead I simply said what I could to take the pain away and helped her shut her eyes against the world.

“What you don’t understand,” I explained to Simmon one afternoon as we sat under the pennant pole, “is that men fall for Denna all the time. Do you know what that’s like for her? How tiresome it is? I am one of her few friends. I won’t risk that. I won’t throw myself at her. She doesn’t want it. I will not be one of the hundred cow-eyed suitors who go mooning after her like love-struck sheep.”

“Denna is a wild thing,” I explained. “Like a hind or a summer storm. If a storm blows down your house, or breaks a tree, you don’t say the storm was mean. It was cruel. It acted according to its nature and something unfortunately was hurt. The same is true of Denna.”

Do you know how much good it does you to chase a wild thing? None. It works against you. It startles the hind away. All you can do is stay gently where you are, and hope in time that the hind will come to you.”

“Tomorrow we’ll have some of my favorite stories. My journey to Alveron’s court. Learning to fight from the Adem. Felurian . . .”

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.