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

by Patrick Rothfuss

And there it was. Like the name of an old friend that had simply slipped my mind for a moment. I looked out among the branches and I saw the wind. I spoke the long name of it gently, and the wind grew gentle. I breathed it out as a whisper, and for the first time since I had come to Haert the wind went quiet and utterly still. In this place of endless wind, it seemed as if the world were suddenly holding its breath. The unceasing dance of the sword tree slowed, then stopped. As if it were resting. As if it had decided to let me go. I stepped away from the tree and began to walk slowly toward Shehyn, bringing nothing with me. As I walked, I raised my left hand and drew my open palm across the razor edge of a hanging leaf. I came to stand before Shehyn, stopping the polite distance from her. I stood, my face an impassive mask. I stood, utterly silent, perfectly still. I extended my left hand, bloody palm up, and closed it into a fist. The gesture meant willing. There was more blood than I’d expected, and it pressed between my fingers to run down the back of my hand. After a long moment, Shehyn nodded. I relaxed, and only then did the wind return.