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

by Patrick Rothfuss

“If it’s something everyone knows, I can’t afford to ask,” he said.

The red-haired man didn’t flinch or curse, just scowled angrily down at his hand as a bead of blood welled up, bright as a berry.

He has such a wonderful laugh. It’s like fruit. Like music. I haven’t heard it in months.”

“You will draw him out of himself. You will wake him up.”

“Life’s too short for you folk to fret over little things.”

“He knew six words he could whisper in a horse’s ear that would make it run a hundred miles. He could turn iron into gold and catch lightning in a quart jar to save it for later. He knew a song that would open any lock, and he could stave in a strong oak door with just one hand.…”

“I don’t wonder why they talk,” I said. “I wonder what they say.”

“And cold, I’m afraid.” She looked up at me, her eyes gentle. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, and reached out and rested her fingers on my cheek for the space of a heartbeat, her touch lighter than the stroke of a feather. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Most things fail with age. Our hands and backs stiffen. Our eyes dim. Skin roughens and our beauty fades. The only exception is the voice. Properly cared for, a voice does nothing but grow sweeter with age and constant use. His was like a sweet honey wine.

“Fault isn’t the issue. A tree doesn’t make a thunderstorm, but any fool knows where lightning’s going to strike.”

“If we were living in a better age they’d build a temple around a woman like that.”

The sound of it made me feel like a cat grabbed by the tail and rubbed backward with a wet hand.

The wood was the color of dark coffee, of freshly turned earth. The curve of the bowl was perfect as a woman’s hip. It was hushed echo and bright string and thrum. My lute. My tangible soul.

I have heard what poets write about women. They rhyme and rhapsodize and lie. I have watched sailors on the shore stare mutely at the slow-rolling swell of the sea. I have watched old soldiers with hearts like leather grow teary-eyed at their king’s colors stretched against the wind. Listen to me: these men know nothing of love. You will not find it in the words of poets or the longing eyes of sailors. If you want to know of love, look to a trouper’s hands as he makes his music. A trouper knows.

So yes. It had flaws, but what does that matter when it comes to matters of the heart? We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because. That’s as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.

My body clenched and suddenly the taste of plum filled my mouth again. “I miss her,” I said before I realized I was speaking. Then I bit it off before I could say anything else. I clenched my teeth and shook my head furiously, like a horse fighting its reins. “You can say it,” Auri said gently. I shook again, tasted plum, and suddenly the words were pouring out of me. “She said I sang before I spoke. She said when I was just a baby she had the habit of humming when she held me. Nothing like a song. Just a descending third. Just a soothing sound. Then one day she was walking me around the camp, and she heard me echo it back to her. Two octaves higher. A tiny piping third. She said it was my first song. We sang it back and forth to each other. For years.” I choked and clenched my teeth. “You can say it,” Auri said softly. “It’s okay if you say it.” “I’m never going to see her again,” I choked out. Then I began to cry in earnest. “It’s okay,” Auri said softly. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

“If he were a little less sweet, he might be able to fit two thoughts in his head at the same time. Maybe they would rub together and make a spark. Even a little smoke would be nice, then at least it would look like something was happening in there.” She sighed.

The second was some rather bad poetry, but it was short, and I forced my way through by gritting my teeth and occasionally closing one eye so as not to damage the entirety of my brain.

They were the best sort of friends. The sort everyone hopes for but no one deserves, least of all me.

I thought the University would be different than the rest of the world, but it’s just like everywhere else: people cater to pompous, rude bastards like Ambrose, while the good souls like Simmon get brushed off as simpletons.”

I felt like I was made of wet paper. I felt like I could barely breathe, like someone had stolen my heart out of my chest.

“Music explains itself,” I said. “It is the road, and it is the map that shows the road. It is both together.”

This thing between you is too tremulous for talk. It is a spark so faint that even the most careful breath might snuff it out.”

But Sim’s willingness to help was different from this. His help was dependable as bread. But knowing Denna cared, that was like a swallow of warm wine on a winter night. I could feel the sweet heat of it in my chest.

“You are my bright penny by the roadside. You are worth more than salt or the moon on a long night of walking. You are sweet wine in my mouth, a song in my throat, and laughter in my heart.”

Something bothers you, someone offends you, and suddenly you’re off.” He made a quick motion with a flat hand. “You know exactly what to do. You never hesitate, you just see and react.”

“Perspective. You go rummaging around in other people’s lives. You hear rumors and go digging for the painful truth beneath the lovely lies. You believe you have a right to these things. But you don’t.” He looked hard at the scribe. “When someone tells you a piece of their life, they’re giving you a gift, not granting you your due.”

“Besides, if there’s one thing I’m well-versed in it’s my own good qualities.”

“Remember: there are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”

In brief, there was a storm, piracy, treachery, and shipwreck, although not in that order. It also goes without saying that I did a great many things, some heroic, some ill-advised, some clever and audacious. Over the course of my trip I was robbed, drowned, and left penniless on the streets of Junpui. In order to survive I begged for crusts, stole a man’s shoes, and recited poetry. The last should demonstrate more than all the rest how truly desperate my situation became. However, as these events have little to do with the heart of the story, I must pass them over in favor of more important things. Simply said, it took me sixteen days to reach Severen. A bit longer than I had planned, but at no point during my journey was I ever bored.

“Graciousness is the luxury of the wise,” I said easily. “So it can be noted that your wisdom lends you grace.”

After a moment’s consideration, I decided lounging was probably similar to relaxing, but with more money in your pocket.

After he called me to his study that evening, rumor exploded like a brushfire around me. I could understand why the Maer enjoyed this sort of thing. It was like watching stories being born.

“Inherent power you possess as a part of yourself. Granted power is lent or given by other people.” He

“Your grace, Caudicus is poisoning you.”

dead as leather.

A cat does not think of stretching, it stretches. But a tree does not even do this. A tree simply sways without the effort of moving itself. That is how she moved.

“But I think she must not, for she caught me with an easy smile, then stole away without a word. Like dew in dawn’s pale light.” “Like a dream upon waking,” Denna added with a smile. “Like a faerie maiden slipping through the trees.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” I said, then reconsidered. “No, that’s not the truth. I would. You’re worth lying for. But I wasn’t. You’re worth telling the truth for too.”

Mysteries, for example, are not secrets. Neither are little-known facts or forgotten truths. A secret, Teccam explains, is true knowledge actively concealed.

There are secrets of the mouth and secrets of the heart. Most secrets are secrets of the mouth. Gossip shared and small scandals whispered. These secrets long to be let loose upon the world. A secret of the mouth is like a stone in your boot. At first you’re barely aware of it. Then it grows irritating, then intolerable. Secrets of the mouth grow larger the longer you keep them, swelling until they press against your lips. They fight to be let free. Secrets of the heart are different. They are private and painful, and we want nothing more than to hide them from the world. They do not swell and press against the mouth. They live in the heart, and the longer they are kept, the heavier they become.

“You are mine. Mine alone. I don’t intend to share you.”

Denna sat in the center of a chilly silence.

My temper was hot and bitter as a bar of molten iron. It seared at me as I walked all the way back to Severen. It burned as I made my way through the city and waited for the freight lifts. It smoldered as I stalked through the Maer’s estates and slammed the door to my rooms behind me.

That is how heavy a secret can become. It can make blood flow easier than ink.