The Wise Man's Fear (The Kingkiller Chronicle, #2)

by Patrick Rothfuss

If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.

“Ah,” the innkeeper said. “So you were getting ready to drink then?” “Tiny Gods, yes,” Bast said. “To great excess. What the hell else is there to do?”

“Lovely. Now how do we—” His eyes narrowed. “Are those my good sheets?” Bast looked down at the bundle. “Well, Reshi,” he said slowly, “that depends. Do you have any bad sheets?”

Looking for Denna was an exercise in futility, like praying for fair weather.

When he spoke, women at the surrounding tables turned to look in his direction with hungry, half-lidded eyes. His voice had the opposite effect on me. To be both rich and handsome was bad enough. But to have a voice like honey over warm bread on top of that was simply inexcusable.

“From you I still like Denna best.”

Like the dark smell of her own hair, like road dust and the air before a summer storm.

“Not pointless,” I protested. “It’s the questions we can’t answer that teach us the most. They teach us how to think. If you give a man an answer, all he gains is a little fact. But give him a question and he’ll look for his own answers.”

My arms and legs no longer shook from the effort of moving slowly along with him, but I was still irritated by how clumsy I was. I hate nothing so much as doing a thing badly.

But now, looking into Felurian’s twilight eyes, I understood her far beyond the bottoms of her feet. Now I knew her to the marrow of her bones. Her eyes were like four lines of music, clearly penned. My mind was filled with the sudden song of her. I drew a breath and sang it out in four hard notes.

Suddenly my mind was clear again. I drew a breath and held her eyes in mine. I sang again, and this time I was full of rage. I shouted out the four hard notes of song. I sang them tight and white and hard as iron. And at the sound of them, I felt her power shake then shatter, leaving nothing in the empty air but ache and anger.

“you are not good at keeping yourself safe, my kvothe.”

“sometimes slow seduction is the only way,” she said. “the gentle shadow fears the candleflame. how could your fledgling shaed not feel the same?”

“no calling of names here. I will not speak of that one, though he is shut beyond the doors of stone.”

“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.”

“have they the will, and know the way. there are a thousand half-cracked doors that lead between my world and yours.”

“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.”

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.”

She didn’t look up from her work when she replied, “so many thoughts, my kvothe. you know too much to be happy.”

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.

There was a dramatic sigh that seemed to come from several places in the foliage at once. “That’s the price you pay for civilization though.” “What price?” I asked. “Arrogance,” the Cthaeh said. “You assume you know everything. You laughed at faeries until you saw one. Small wonder all your civilized neighbors dismiss the Chandrian as well. You’d have to leave your precious corners far behind before you found someone who might take you seriously. You wouldn’t have a hope until you made it to the Stormwal.”

“It is a shame you left without a word, you know. She was just beginning to trust you before that. Before you got angry. Before you ran off. Just like every other man in her life. Just like every other man. Lusting after her, full of sweet words, then just walking away. Leaving her alone. Good thing she’s used to it by now, isn’t it? Otherwise you might have hurt her. Otherwise you just might have broken that poor girl’s heart.”

“It lies to men and drives them mad?” She shook her head slowly. “the Cthaeh does not lie. it has the gift of seeing, but it only tells things to hurt men. only a dennerling would speak to the Cthaeh.” She touched the side of my neck to soften her words.

Kvothe looked at both of them for a moment, then smiled and chuckled low in his chest. “Oh,” he said fondly. “You’re both so young.”

I could imagine someone like Tempi growing up in a place like this, soaking in the quiet until he was full of it, then taking it with him when he left.

“The point of all of this is control. First you must have control of yourself. Then you can gain control of your surroundings. Then you gain control of whoever stands against you. This is the Lethani.”

Then he said, “When I dream, I have two hands.” We finished the dishes together, sharing silence between us. Sometimes that is all you can share.

What other option did I have, now that words had failed me? What do any of us have when words fail us?

It was the broken breath. It was smooth and swift and sharp and deadly. The name didn’t fit like a glove. It fit like skin. More than that. It was bone and muscle and movement. Those things are the hand. And Caesura was the sword. It was both the name and the thing itself. I can’t tell you how I knew this. But I knew it.

I cannot describe how she looked. And even if I could, it would not impress upon you the truth of things, as her face was still almost entirely impassive. Instead let me say this. I have never seen anyone so furious in my entire life.

“I am sorry to tell you this thing. You are a good man, and a pretty thing. But still, you are only a man. All you have to offer the world is your anger.”

“To carry a sword your whole life, knowing it was only for killing …” She shook her head. “What would that do to a person’s mind? It would be a horrible thing.”

“What is the heart of the Lethani?” I asked Vashet. “Success and right action.” “Which is the more important, success or rightness?” “They are the same. If you act rightly success follows.” “But others may succeed by doing wrong things,” I pointed out. “Wrong things never lead to success,” Vashet said firmly. “If a man acts wrongly and succeeds, that is not the way. Without the Lethani there is no true success.”

“Quit expecting me to be something I’m not,” he said, still breathing hard. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed at his eyes, smearing blood across his face. He let his head sag wearily. “God’s mother, why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Deoch told me he hadn’t so much as glimpsed Denna’s shadow in a year. But even looking for her and not finding her was comforting in a way. In some ways that seemed to be the heart of our relationship.

But none of them came terribly close to the truth. No story can move a thousand miles by word of mouth and keep its shape.

“I’ve waited a long time to show these flowers how pretty you are,” I said.

She lay on her back and spread her hair to dry. Its wetness made a pattern against the stone that spelled the name of the wind.

“Another seven words, I swoon.” She fanned herself with her other hand. “What should a woman do?” “Love me.” I had intended to say it in my best flippant tone. Teasing. Making a joke of it. But I made the mistake of looking into her eyes as I spoke.

“You win,” he said to her. “Love is blind, and a deaf-mute too. I’ll never doubt your wisdom again.”