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

by Patrick Rothfuss

and when there wasn’t any food we could always have a drink of water, a tired smile, and someone who looked at us as if we were human, not animals in rags.

Sometimes it seemed that Trapis alone was trying to care for all the hopeless creatures in our corner of Tarbean. In return we loved him with a silent ferocity that only animals can match.

or when I had something to share.

It was almost like a home you could come back to. Almost.

My father played an Encanis

Encanis was out there too, in the traditional black mask,

the churches in Tarbean took the more profitable path of selling demon masks.

Gerrek!

She looked at me. “You can have a corner by the fire in here if you want it.”

My voice was shaking, though I couldn’t tell if I was angry or afraid.

My voice was blurry in my ears.

He kept my face and hands wet and cool while murmuring his patient, gentle, “What what. Hush hush,” while I cried out from endless fever dreams of my dead parents, the Chandrian, and a man with empty eyes.

There was one demon that stood above the others. Encanis, the swallowing darkness. No matter where he walked, shadows hid his face, and scorpions that stung him died of the corruption they had touched.

Some men he saved, but only a few. For Tehlu is just and saves only the worthy, and in these times few men acted even for their own good, let alone the good of others.

But his church was corrupt. They stole from the poor and did not live by the laws he had given. .

You are no longer Rengen, now you are Wereth, the forger of the path.”

In the end, seven stayed on the other side of the line. Tehlu asked them three times if they would cross, and three times they refused. After the third asking Tehlu sprang across the line and he struck each of them a great blow, driving them to the ground. But not all were men. When Tehlu struck the fourth, there was the sound of quenching iron and the smell of burning leather. For the fourth man had not been a man at all, but a demon wearing a man’s skin. When it was revealed, Tehlu grabbed the demon and broke it in his hands, cursing its name and sending it back to the outer darkness that is the home of its kind. The remaining three let themselves be struck down. None of them were demons, though demons fled the bodies of some who fell.

But there was one demon who eluded Tehlu. Encanis, whose face was all in shadow. Encanis, whose voice was like a knife in the minds of men.

So Tehlu chased and Encanis fled.

Finally he was so close he felt the chill of Encanis’ passing and could spy places where he had set his hands and feet, for they were marked with a cold, black frost.

six great cities he destroyed.

seventh city was saved.

Atur.

Your people are like cattle my kind feed on! Bite and break you, if you gave me half an hour I would do such things that these wretched gawping peasants would go mad with fear.

Encanis screamed in fury and in disbelief, for though he was forced back onto the burning wheel, and though he felt the strength of Tehlu was greater than chains he had broken, he saw Tehlu was burning in the flames.

And if I am needed and called in the proper ways then I will come again to judge and punish.”

Was Trapis a Tehlin priest?

You’d think I’d remember the stitches and bandages.” He shook his head. “I don’t. I remember that young boy sobbing in the dark. Clear as a bell after all these years.”

Tears, just tears

“I could have,” Kvothe said seriously, “and I didn’t. I made my choice and I regret it to this day. Bones mend. Regret stays with you forever.”

“You’re right, of course. Anywhere would have been better than Tarbean.” He shrugged, facing the fire. “But we are all creatures of habit. It is far too easy to stay in the familiar ruts we dig for ourselves. Perhaps I even viewed it as fair. My punishment for not being there to help when the Chandrian came. My punishment for not dying when I should have, with the rest of my family.”

“Ben’s training has given me a memory so clean and sharp I have to be careful not to cut myself sometimes.”

with a long-handled spoon as he

“You must also remember that I was not in my right mind. Much of me was still in shock, sleeping if you will. I needed something, or someone, to wake me up.”

“I needed to be reminded of things I had forgotten. I needed a reason to leave. It was years before I met someone who could do those things.” He smiled at Chronicler. “Before I met Skarpi.”

But aside from the desire to add to my rainy-day money I had nothing to live for.

Reflexively, I began to draw away from the memories, the way you might pull your hand back from a fire. But I was surprised to find these memories held only a gentle ache, not the deep pain I expected. Instead I found a small, budding excitement at the thought of hearing a story my father would have sought out. A story he himself might have told.

“So, Lanre and the Creation War.

Myr Tariniel.

Selitos was lord over Myr Tariniel.

Selitos was the most powerful

namer

of anyone alive in ...

he could read the hearts of men like heavy-lettered books.

The other seven cities, lacking Selitos’ power, found their safety elsewhere. They put their trust in thick walls, in stone and steel. They put their trust in strength of arm, in valor and bravery and blood. And so they put their trust in Lanre. Lanre had fought since he could lift a sword, and by the time his voice began to crack he was the equal of a dozen older men. He married a woman named Lyra, and his love for her was a passion fiercer than fury.

Lyra knew the names of things, and the power of her voice could kill a man or still a thunderstorm.

foe

beast

Encanis? Halifax?

Word of Lanre’s death spread quickly, covering the field like a blanket of despair. They had won the battle and turned the tide of the war, but each of them felt cold inside. The small flame of hope that each of them cherished began to flicker and fade. Their hopes had hung on Lanre, and Lanre was dead. In the midst of silence Lyra stood by Lanre’s body and spoke his name. Her voice was a commandment. Her voice was steel and stone. Her voice told him to live again. But Lanre lay motionless and dead.

In the midst of fear Lyra knelt by Lanre’s body and breathed his name. Her voice was a beckoning. Her voice was love and longing. Her voice called him to live again. But Lanre lay cold and dead. In the midst of despair Lyra fell across Lanre’s body and wept his name. Her voice was a whisper. Her voice was echo and emptiness. Her voice begged him to live again. But Lanre lay breathless and dead. Lanre was dead. Lyra wept brokenly and touched his face with trembling hands.

All around men turned their heads, because the bloody field was less horrible to loo...