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

by Patrick Rothfuss

If you are going to impose your will on the world, you must have control over what you believe.”

“Would you rather learn how to call the wind?” His eyes danced at me. He murmured a word and the canvas ceiling of the wagon rustled around us. I felt a grin capture my face, wolfish. “Too bad, E’lir.” His grin was wolfish too, and savage. “You need to learn your letters before you can write. You need to learn the fingerings on the strings before you play and sing.”

“Seven things has Lady Lackless Keeps them underneath her black dress One a ring that’s not for wearing One a sharp word, not for swearing Right beside her husband’s candle There’s a door without a handle In a box, no lid or locks Lackless keeps her husband’s rocks There’s a secret she’s been keeping She’s been dreaming and not sleeping On a road, that’s not for traveling Lackless likes her riddle raveling.”

“Always think about what you’re singing, honey.”

“The difference is between saying something to a person, and saying something about a person. The first might be rude, but the second is always gossip.”

Lady Lackless is a real person, with feelings that can be hurt.” She looked up at me.

“I imagine you could make it up to both Lady Lackless and myself if you found some sweet nettle for the pot tonight.”

I should also make it clear that much of the time I spent with Ben was my free time. I was still responsible for my normal duties in the troupe. I acted the part of the young page when needed. I helped paint scenery and sew costumes. I rubbed down the horses at night and rattled the sheet of tin backstage when we needed thunder onstage. But I didn’t bemoan the loss of my free time. A child’s endless energy and my own insatiable lust for knowledge made the following year one of the happiest times I can remember.

TOWARD THE END of the summer I accidentally overheard a conversation that shook me out of my state of blissful ignorance. When we are children we seldom think of the future. This innocence leaves us free to enjoy ourselves as few adults can. The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.

When did I first worry about the future? When I wondered if my intense aloneness and set-apartness was eternal and why they plagued me seemingly infinitely more than others. 7 or 8. Because at the same time I was realizing the oppression that was "family" would last until I could leave home. Graduation. Another 10 years. Did I lose myself in play, whimsy, beauty? Yes. Like most children. But no child should learn so early to treasure, to cherish these moments as rare gems when they ought to be as plentiful as sunny days or the hairs on our heads.

the distant music that a conversation makes when it’s too dim for words.

Chandrian. I pulled up short when I heard that. Everyone in the troupe knew my father was working on a song. He’d been teasing old stories and rhymes from townsfolk for over a year wherever we stopped to play. For months it was stories about Lanre. Then he started gathering old faerie stories too, legends about bogies and shamble-men. Then he began to ask questions about the Chandrian. . . . That was months ago. Over the last half year he had asked more about the Chandrian and less about Lanre, Lyra, and the rest. Most songs my father set to writing were finished in a single season, while this one was stretching toward its second year. You should know this as well: my father never let word or whisper of a song be heard before it was ready to play. Only my mother was allowed into his confidence, as her hand was always in any song he made. The cleverness in the music was his. The best words were hers.

ago. I don’t suppose you know why they do what they do?” I could tell by my father’s tone that he didn’t really expect an answer. “That’s the real mystery, isn’t it?” Ben chuckled. “I think that’s what makes them more frightening than the rest of the bogey-men you hear about in stories. A ghost wants revenge, a demon wants your soul, a shamble-man is hungry and cold. It makes them less terrible. Things we understand we can try to control. But Chandrian come like lightning from a clear blue sky. Just destruction. No rhyme or reason to it.”

“My song will have both,” my father said with grim determination. “I think I’ve dug up their reason, after all this while. I’ve teased it together from bits and pieces of story. That’s what’s so galling about this, to have the harder part of this done and have all these small specifics giving me such trouble.” “You think you know?” Ben said curiously.

Arl.”

“How about off in Vintas?” Ben asked. “Fair number of them are Tehlins. Do they feel the same way?” My mother shook her head. “They think it’s a little silly. They like their demons metaphorical.” “What are they afraid of at night in Vintas then?” “The Fae,” my mother said.

Every place has its little superstitions, and everyone laughs at what the folk across the river think.” He gave them a serious look. “But have either of you ever heard a humorous song or story about the Chandrian? I’ll bet a penny you haven’t.”

“Now I’m not saying that the Chandrian are out there, striking like lightning from the clear blue sky. But folk everywhere are afraid of them. There’s usually a reason for that.”

“And names are strange things. Dangerous things.” He gave them a pointed look. “That I know for true because I am an educated man.

“He gets them from his father, graceful and gentle. Perfect for seducing young nobles’ daughters.”

“With his eyes and those hands there won’t be a woman safe in all the world when he starts hunting after the ladies.” “Courting, dear,” my father corrected gently. “Semantics,” she shrugged. “It’s all a chase, and when the race is done, I think I pity women chaste who run.”

My mother laughed like bells,

She smiled wickedly at my father, who appeared a little embarrassed. Then she kissed him. He kissed her back. That’s how I like to remember them today. I snuck away with thoughts of the University dancing in my head.

“I will have no fighting among my friends. I have lost enough without that.”

If there is one thing I will not abide, it is the folly of a willful pride.”

The jovial innkeeper was gone, and in his place stood someone dark and fierce.

He’s so young, Chronicler marveled. He can’t be more than twenty-five. Why didn’t I see it before? He could break me in his hands like a kindling stick. How did I ever mistake him for an innkeeper, even for a moment?

Nothing happened, both of them seemed moderately surprised. “Amazing, isn’t it?” Kvothe addressed them bitingly. “Five fingers and flesh with blood beneath. One could almost believe that on the other end of that hand lay a person of some sort.”

humming to himself

“You never make it easy, do you?” “It’s an annoying habit I picked up from a student who was too clever for his own good.” He smiled. “What could you do even if you had a feather?”

muted, as if far off in the distance. Terror screamed through my mind, drowning out any thought. I began to claw at my throat, ripping my shirt open. My heart thundered through the ringing in my ears. Pain stabbed through my straining chest as I gaped for air.

When I looked up, Ben’s eyes were furious. “What were you thinking?” he hissed. “Well? What? What were you thinking?” I’d never seen him like this before, his whole body drawn up into a tight knot of anger. He was shaking with it. He drew back his arm to strike me . . . then stopped. After a moment his hand fell to his side.

I found my mother sitting in front of a fresh fire, slowly adding twigs to build it up. My father sat behind her, rubbing her neck and shoulders. They both looked up at the sound of my feet running toward them.

When I came out of the wagon, he had her in a dramatic dip and was giving her a kiss. I set the needle and thread next to my shirt and waited. It seemed like a good kiss. I watched with a calculating eye, dimly aware that at some point in the future I might want to kiss a lady. If I did, I wanted to do a decent job of it. After a moment my father noticed me and stood my mother back on her feet. “That will be ha’penny for the show, Master Voyeur,” he laughed. “What are you still here for, boy? I’ll bet you the same ha’penny that a question slowed you down.” “Why do we stop for the greystones?” “Tradition, my boy,” he said grandly, throwing his arms wide. “And superstition. They are one and the same, anyway. We stop for good luck and because everyone enjoys an unexpected holiday.” He paused. “I used to know a bit of poem about them. How did it go . . . ? “Like a drawstone even in our sleep Standing stone by old road is the way To lead you ever deeper into Fae. Laystone as you lay in hill or dell Greystone leads to something something ‘ell.’”

“Remember this, son, if you forget everything else. A poet is a musician who can’t sing. Words have to find a man’s mind before they can touch his heart, and some men’s minds are woeful small targets. Music touches their hearts directly no matter how small or stubborn the mind of the man who listens.”

“Scales after lunch tomorrow? And the second act of Tinbertin?” “Okay.” I burst into a jog.

“I never said stupid,” Ben corrected me. “You’re clever. We both know that. But you can be thoughtless. A clever, thoughtless person is one of the most terrifying things there is. Worse, I’ve been teaching you some dangerous things.”

Knowing my parents wouldn’t expect me back for a while, I headed into the forest. I had some thinking of my own to do. I owed Ben that much. I wished I could do more.

Think then, how do you entertain the people who have seen your act a thousand times? You dust off the old tricks. You try out some new ones. You hope for the best. And, of course, the grand failures are as entertaining as the great successes.

I remember the evening as a wonderful blur of warm emotion, tinged in bitter. Fiddles, lutes, and drums, everyone played and danced and sang as they wished. I dare say we rivaled any faerie revel you can bring to mind.

I remember it tasting the way I felt, sweet and bitter and sullen.

Arliden.”

He flexed his fingers and struck a few soft, experimental notes, then swept into the song so gently that I caught myself listening to it before I knew it had begun.

If you can find someone like that, someone who you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you’re lucky. Even if it only lasts for a minute or a day. The image of them gently swaying to the music is how I picture love in my mind even after all these years.

But, even as young as I was, I knew the truth. It would be a great long time before I saw him again. Years.

I don’t remember starting out that morning, but I do remember trying to sleep and feeling quite alone except for a dull, bittersweet ache.

I’d never said anything aloud, but Ben would have guessed. I read his inscription again, cried a bit, and promised him that I would do my best.

“Is this the king’s road or isn’t it? You’d think we were the only people on it. How long ago was that storm? Two span?” “Not quite,” I said. “Sixteen days.” “And trees still blocking the road!

I'm sure it was the Chandrian

“I think it’s nice,” my mother said, walking around from the back of the wagon. “Gives us the chance for something hot”—she gave my father a significant look—“to eat. It gets frustrating making do with whatever you can grab at the end of the day. A body wants more.” My father’s mood seemed to temper considerably. “There is that,” he said. “Sweet?” my mother called to me. “Do you think you could find me some wild sage?”

“I don’t know if it grows around here,” I said with the proper amount of uncertainty in my voice. “No harm in looking,” she said sensibly. She looked at my father from the corner of her eye. “If you can find enough, bring back an armload. We’ll dry it for later.”

I hope they spent those last few hours well. I hope they didn’t waste them on mindless tasks: kindling the evening fire and cutting vegetables for dinner. I hope they sang together, as they so often did. I hope they retired to our wagon and spent time in each other’s arms. I hope they lay near each other afterward and spoke softly of small things. I hope they were together, busy with loving each other, until the end came. It is a small hope, and pointless really. They are just as dead either way. Still, I hope.